


Truth Hurts

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV Show)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arya is not a xenophobic murder child, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Bran is still weird, Canon Divergent, Daenerys has a strategy, Daenerys is a little extra in the beginning, Daenerys is over Jon Snow's bullshit, F/M, Jon Snow is legitimized, Leaving your lover, Mentions of Emotional Abuse, Minor Character Deaths, Missandei is over it too, Missandei is salty, Oral Sex, Our faves pulling their heads out of their asses, Sansa is not a complete cow, Secret Baby, Smut, Stubborn lovers, Tyrion and Varys are incompetent, Vaginal Sex, What season 8 might have looked like if people used logic, Yassss queen, Yet another season 8 fix it, boat baby, if you're tired of fix its move on, inspired by a song, jonerys angst, jonerys is a thing, jonerys smut, mention of suicide, misunderstandings and miscommunications, salt fic, they just have issues mainly Jon being dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: After the final war council, Daenerys reclaims her time.
Relationships: Daenerys & Missandei, Daenerys Targaryen & Sansa Stark, Daenerys Targaryen/Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen/Quentyn Martell (minor), Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Missandei/Grey Worm
Comments: 430
Kudos: 885





	1. Why Men Great Til They Gotta Be Great?

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this song is inspired by Lizzo, more the song "Good As Hell" (If he don't love you anymore, walk your fine ass out that door. So Daenerys will do her hair toss and check her nails.) Anyway, yes this is another season 8 fix it, picking up after the war council in episode 4. What if, instead of pining after Jon Snow and letting that ruin everything, Daenerys took her power back? What if Jon Snow got a "Dear Jon" letter? What if Daenerys starts listening to herself and drinks the tears of her haters? What if Daenerys is like, the Daenerys we know?
> 
> This was intended to be a one shot but it got too big so it will probably be about 5 or 6 chapters. Please comment!

_ Dany _

She wishes they could go back. Not necessarily back to the boat, but back to not talking. Back to the days just before the Great War - well, great  _ battle -  _ when she could only assume that his sudden turnabout was due to some unknown offense she’d caused, or his preoccupation with preparations, or a wish to avoid the disapproving, disgusted looks and whispers of his fickle bannermen, or because his family had gotten to him and made him start to doubt her, and himself, and what they were and could be together.

She’s even starting to wish she could go back to a time before she knew he existed, this brooding, honorable, brave and beautiful man who captured her heart and pleasured her more thoroughly and unselfishly than any who came before him. Because if she never knew him, she’d have never known the pain of this distance between them, or what he really is. Her last living kin, yes. Something in which she should rejoice because she isn’t alone. Something that should be  _ enough,  _ even if she still hopes for more. But it isn’t, because it doesn’t surmount the threat he is to her. This man who would sooner cut off his own hand than bring harm to her is a greater threat than his conniving sister, or his disloyal people, or Cersei, or the Night King. With a word, he can sweep away everything for which she has fought and bled and suffered, and take it for himself. He assures her he won’t. He’s gone to great lengths to prove his loyalty, admonishing his sister in the war council earlier today, and swearing himself to her in his chambers the night of the feast, speaking so earnestly, oblivious that his tenderness was just another knife in her heart. Because she knows it means that he can no longer give  _ himself _ to her. Only his sword. Only the Seven Kingdoms. 

Hardly a consolation, all things considered.

It’s strange to her, how quickly a man’s affections have rendered her life’s pursuit secondary. It is quite pathetic in truth. Being barren, her only inducement to marry is build a political alliance, and he’s already bent the knee without requesting her hand in return. With the other kingdoms tentatively at her back, she has no need of a husband now. But from the moment she realized the depth of her feelings for Jon, until quite recently, when she pictured herself on the Throne, she pictured him at her side. He’d make a handsome consort. The common folk would lap it up like cream from a saucer, the comely bastard lord on the arm of his beautiful Queen, deeply in love, the sort of frivolous symbol of hope to which the low born - and some of the nobility - cling.

But the intricately woven tapestry was rent by six words.

_ My real name is Aegon Targaryen. _

He still wants her, at least she thinks he does. The night of the feast, deep enough into his cups, he’d forgotten for a few minutes, and kissed her with the same ferocious passion as he had aboard the ship, pawing at her dress, urging her toward his desk where he undoubtedly intended to have his way with her, the only claim he wished to stake. And oh, she wanted him to, but he pulled away, disgusted, pained, confused. Since then, she has avoided him, because it hurts to look at him, with those sad brown eyes and lean but powerful form that tenses like a bowstring whenever she comes near. It hurts to watch him deny himself, for ardor is something, even if there is no love behind it. She knows it’s not that. More likely he doesn’t know  _ how _ he’s supposed to love her now; as Queen, or kinswoman, or lover? The way he looks at her certainly isn’t the way he looks at his sisters, nor is it with the reverence and fear due a monarch. No, it’s longing, and lust, and shame. He’s ashamed of her. He’s ashamed of  _ them _ , not just of him and her, but of their House. And it angers her, and though she would never admit it to anyone, it is why she is in such a rush to leave this place. 

She knows his pernicious sister is right. Their men need to rest and recover. But as vast a fortress as Winterfell is, it isn’t big enough for two Targaryens and the thing that poisons the air between them. So she has to go, and will, within the week. She has already instructed her commanders to prepare for their departure with all haste, and has assurance from her healers that her wounded men are able to march to the White Knife, where some will board the barges to White Harbour while others, the Northmen included, will continue down the Kingsroad. She thinks it would be wiser if they all traveled together and laid siege to the capital from the North, but she can’t bear a month’s march at Jon’s side, of perfunctory exchanges about battle plans and alliances, pretending that he is anyone other than who and what he is to her, the gap widening with every word not spoken, every kiss or touch not shared. It would undo her, and the work ahead is difficult enough as it is. She can’t allow him to pull her focus now. Not when she is so close. Not when so many are depending on her to be at her best, and some others are waiting for her to fail.

But he distracts her, despite her best efforts. She still loves him. She wants him. And even if he feels the same, she knows he will never again act on it. Some might say that she should count herself fortunate, to have loved such a man and been loved in return, but that is rubbish. She’d rather have never known it at all, for she can’t mourn the loss of something that was never hers.

She raises her arms to undo the clasps of her gown, her shoulders still sore from the unfamiliar use of swinging a sword to defend herself, for what seemed like hours, hacking away at anything that moved. She wishes she’d had Ser Jorah or Daario or even Jon teach her properly, for she’d managed to hold her own even though her poor Bear took the brunt of the wight attack and fell while protecting her. The ache of her muscles matches the one in her heart. She has never felt more alone. She thinks of Jorah, of his devotion and his courage. He loved her, she told Jon. And she could not return that love, instead wasting it on the honorable Northern fool who will no longer accept it. Her throat closes and strains and tears sting her eyes. She’s surprised she has any left to cry. All she wants now is sleep that she knows will not come. She’s exhausted, she always is of late. Exhausted, easily provoked to tears or anger, empty, and hopeless. It’s as though she’s still stuck roaming the Red Waste, dying of thirst and isolation, slowly, painfully, with no comfort to be found in her people or herself, no longer able to be the source of strength and reassurance for everyone else.

The cumbersome winter dress painfully constricts her breasts, the high collar choking her. She exhales with great relief as her heavy gown pools at her feet, and her linen shift clings snugly around her midsection as she pushes it down. She can’t wait until she can wear the Essosi style of gowns again, so flowing and light, not drab grey or black, but perhaps silks of crimson, the color of her House, or of vibrant blues as she donned in Meereen and Qarth, or green organza that reminds her of summer and warmth and everything that isn’t the hellscape of the North in winter. She thought the snow was picturesque at first, but all the activity around the castle has turned it into a slurry of dirt and ice and blood. The stench of dung and burning corpses and yeasty ale constantly assails her nostrils, turning her stomach. She thinks of Jon’s scent, so different from the rest of this place, of freshly fallen snow, and pine, and leather, and her, a little bit. What once stoked her desire now just brings her despair. Never again will she wake up in his arms, to the feel of his hands in her hair, or the tattoo of his heart against her ear. To her chagrin, tears escape the corners of her eyes, wetting her cheeks. 

The brisk air raises gooseflesh on her arms and puckers her nipples. She stands there for a moment, nude, then approaches the hearth where the fire cracks, sending tiny embers and soot dancing through the air. She crouches there and closes her eyes, then reaches out, seeking comfort in the one thing she’s ever embraced that has never caused her harm. She watches as the fire swirls and flits over her arms and hands. She’s heard that the worshipers of the Lord of Light can see the future in the flames. She squints and stares, but sees only her own hands, unharmed, unburnt as always. It occurs to her that she could set this castle and everything within it alight right now, and she’d be the only one unscathed. She startles as she considers that thought, but it’s what a dragon does to defend itself. And she no longer has any illusions that she is safe here. She squeezes her eyes shut again, pushing dark thoughts aside. She’ll save her inferno for Cersei, if it comes to that.

She’s perturbed by a soft knock at her door, and scrambles to her feet, retrieving her robe from the bed, throwing it around her shoulders.

“Your Grace?” Missandei’s soothing Naathi accent floats through the room like a feather in a spring breeze, bringing a small measure of comfort instantly. Her closest female friend has been quite preoccupied of late, relishing what time she is allowed with Torgo Nudho, and Dany can hardly begrudge her that happiness. She was every bit as elusive during the sea voyage to White Harbour, tucked away in her cabin with Jon at every free moment, only sparing Missandei enough time to tend to her grooming and dress.

“Come in.”

The hinges on the door creak loudly. Everything in this crypt of stone creaks, like weary bones that have seen too many winters, and it sets her teeth on edge. Jon told her parts of the castle are thousands of years old, full of secrets, a few of which he was never able to unlock despite his childhood here. Though not exactly cozy, Winterfell is surprisingly warm inside, apparently harnessing heat from underground springs. He had told her that he’d take her to see them, and maybe they’d sneak a dip, just to be alone. It never happened. Many things never happened. 

Missandei tentatively crosses the threshold and enters the chamber, her eyes uncertain, and Dany wonders what she has done, that everyone around her seems so tense in her presence now. If there is anyone with whom she has always had an easy rapport, and absolute trust, it is Missandei. Has she lost that, too? Has she spent so much time fawning and then fretting over Jon, that the people who have been with her the longest have been neglected, like Arbour grapes left to wither on the vine? Dany extends a hand to her friend, plastering a false smile on her lips. Luckily her tears have dried, and she hopes her eyes aren’t red and puffy, betraying her state. But as Missandei slips a hand into hers, Dany knows that she knows.

“I thought you’d be with Grey Worm.”

“No, Your Grace. Some of the Wildling men absconded with him, I’m afraid,” she replies with a quirk of her lips.

Dany returns a faint smile in spite of herself. She can’t imagine two more disparate personalities, the men of the Free Folk, so robust and obnoxious, lacking all decorum, and her stoic Unsullied. But then, the wildlings have embraced Jon as one of theirs, and he isn’t much different from her soldiers in temperment, despite what he can do with his cock. 

“War makes for strange bedfellows, I suppose. Come sit with me. I feel it’s been ages since we had a proper conversation.”

The two women settle onto opposite ends of the lounge, but an awkward silence passes several minutes before Missandei rises.

“Water, Your Grace?” She lifts the pitcher from the nearby table and pours a goblet full for herself, but Dany declines. Carefully, she eases herself back down onto the lounge, tucking her legs beneath her. Then her expression shifts to something serious, and Dany braces herself. “Your Grace, is something the matter? I know you are mournful for Ser Jorah, as are we all, but you’ve been out of sorts since before the battle, and I have been remiss in my duty to lend you an ear.”

She knows Missandei doesn’t mean it like that. She’s not just a responsibility. They are, and have been for years, quite genuine friends and companions. But it stings just the same.  _ Duty _ . She’s everyone’s  _ duty _ . Viserys, Tyrion, Jon. Not someone to care for because of who she is, but because of what she represents. 

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, and focuses her eyes on the fire, avoiding Missandei’s entreating gaze. “It’s nothing.”

“Your Grace,” Missandei sets her goblet down on the end table and shifts closer to her, “I can’t help but notice that you and Lord Jon…...well, that things between you are quite….strained. He has not shared your bed in weeks, you barely speak but for council meetings….What has happened?”

“Has there been gossip?” She cringes at the sharpness of her tone, but the subject of Jon Snow brings this out in her of late.

“Not so much, Your Grace, but I overheard Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys talking.”

Now  _ this  _ heats her blood, and it thrums in her veins, rushing to her head, making her dizzy. She’s perfectly aware that her Hand and Master of Whispers have spent an inordinate amount of time lately huddled together, whispering intently, eyeing her with concern, and, if her instincts are true, distrust. As if they have grounds to doubt her. They are the ones who have consistently offered half-baked advice resulting in one disaster after another. Perhaps they resent having their failures brought to their attention, thinking that she should be grateful for their wise, male council. As though she’s nothing but a silly girl propped up by the people around her. Bitterly, she wishes to remind the two of them how far she made it in life without their help (and in Varys’ case, in spite of his efforts). She has half a mind to relieve them both of their duties, to name Missandei her Hand, and who needs spies when one has dragons? She scowls. The last thing she wants to talk about are two inept men who think themselves far more indispensable than they actually are. 

She tries to measure her tone to conceal her simmering rage. “What did they say?” 

“Apparently you have received several marriage proposals, Your Grace. Lord Tyrion observed that perhaps the Starks’ low opinion of you has influenced Lord Jon adversely, and Lord Varys commented that your estrangement may make you more likely to accept another’s hand.” Missandei looks at her with sorrowful eyes, as if she is at fault for the information she conveys.

“I see.” Daenerys turns away, and fresh tears well.

“Are they correct about Lord Jon? Have his family turned him against you?”

She doesn’t say anything for a time as she swallows the lump in her throat. “It isn’t that,” she finally replies, her voice wavering. 

Because maybe it is. Maybe it’s not his family’s (more specifically, _Sansa’s_ ) objections that have turned him cold, but the notion that he has to choose between what he always wanted to be and what he _is_. That to give himself to her in every way is somehow a betrayal of his mother’s heritage, of Ned Stark’s memory. She knows it goes beyond any queasiness about being her nephew by blood. That obviously didn’t bother him when he shoved his tongue into her welcoming mouth and groped her after the feast. It doesn’t conceal the lust in his gaze when she catches him looking for too long. Blood has nothing but everything to do with it. And she doesn’t have time to allow him to figure it out. She’s not going to wait for however long it takes, only to wind up rejected again. His honor will win out every time, and even if his sense of it is skewed, it is very real, and a formidable obstacle. 

  
  


“Then what?” Missandei scoots closer to her, places a tawny hand over her pale one. “Did you quarrel?”

Dany cocks her head piteously, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She blinks to fight them back, but she cannot hide them. “It’s a lot to explain, and something I’d prefer to never discuss again, my friend. All I can say is that Jon Snow has decided that our relationship cannot continue, though he pledges his fealty and will fight for me in the war for the Iron Throne.”

Missandei’s eyebrows furrow as she turns it over in her mind. “I don’t understand, Your Grace. He seems so besotted with you, so devoted. Even today during the war council, he looked at you like a man starved. I assumed it was you who turned him away.”

“No,” Dany replies with a pout. “Not at all in fact.”

“Well, whatever the reason, if he does not see what he has in you, and care enough to fight for your love, then he does not deserve you, Your Grace.”

Despite her sour mood, the defiant shift in Missandei’s expression warms her. She squeezes her friend’s hand and gives a sad smile. “Perhaps you’re right,” she admits. And she was. Even before Jon was made aware of his parentage, his attempts to defend her or justify his decision to bend the knee had been tepid at best. He’d thrown her to the wolves, and the pack had circled her, and she was back in the fighting pit, under attack, and this time there was no one to protect her. And though she is perfectly capable of fighting her own battles, it was disheartening. Maybe that should have been a warning sign to her.

Missandei purses her lips. Then suddenly she tugs Dany’s hand, forcing her to stand. Her robe nearly falls open, and she pulls it to, as she shivers in the cool air. “What are you doing?”

“Come with me,” Missandei says, her voice almost stern. 

She leads Dany over to her vanity and lightly presses her shoulders, urging her to sit. She makes quick work of the pins in her hair, running a brush through it until it hangs in soft, glossy waves. She quickly arranges it into a single plait, adorning the tail with thick gold bands in the Dothraki style. She then rummages through the wardrobe, emerging with a blue velvet gown with white fur trim and her white fur stole. Dany is still a bit baffled when Missandei pulls her robe from her shoulders and throws a white underdress over her head. Absently, she reaches her arms through the sleeves, as it dawns on her what is happening. She stands and pulls on some wool leggings next, and allows Missandei to assist her in donning the new gown, one she’d been anxious for Jon to see, something lush and colorful, and though quilted and lined to ensure her comfort in the freezing North, still accentuating her form in all the right places. The neckline is almost scandalous, as far as she’s able to surmise Westerosi fashion; a low cut that disappears into the valley of her breasts, revealing a peek of side cleavage. The waistline is tight, more than she is used to. The skirt is full and trimmed with fur and brushes the slate floor as she walks. It’s more regal than anything she’s worn in a very long time. She takes a deep breath and studies her reflection in the floor-length mirror and she remembers that she is still a Queen, for now at least.

“And why have you dressed me for court instead of bed?” she queries, her lips ticking into a half-smile, which is more than she’s managed in days.

“Come,” Missandei repeats. It is not like her to be so forward and bossy with her Queen, but Dany dares not refuse. “We will have some enjoyment ourselves tonight, and when the sun rises, Jon Snow will be the furthest thing from your mind.”


	2. Ladies Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany and Missandei let off some steam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok keep in mind I’m old AF with 3 kids and I have not had a proper GNO in a very long time. And it’s not the details that are the point, so much as the result.
> 
> Thanks for reading and your responses!

The winter town is a settlement at Winterfell’s gates. As Jon explained it before their arrival, the population varies from season to season, but in autumn it rivals White Harbour’s. It is winter now, though, and there usually isn’t much to see, especially at night, but the brilliant moonlight and the lanterns hanging from posts every few dozen feet or so illuminate the outlines of small log and stone houses. 

Her feet are numb from the cold as she trudges through the muddy streets toward the apparent center of the town. She notes the glow of cook fires and candles through the frost-covered windows, and can hear the sounds of robust merrymaking as she and Missandei navigate the narrow road. She pulls the hood of her cloak over her head, as if that would work to conceal her. They bypass a tavern where some drunken men stumble out, laughing and singing, not acknowledging her. Several paces forward she notices a few Dothraki milling about in front of a two-story stone building, carrying on their typical competitive displays, though they snap to attention at the sight of their Khaleesi. Dany can hear the squeals and cackles and howls of inebriation and fucking coming from within, and her stomach clenches.

Missandei explains that the Dothraki find it far too cold here to have their women out in the open as is their custom, not that there are many women left to be shared anyway. The commanders, both long serving and those recently promoted by necessity, discovered a particular establishment that suits their needs. Dany doesn’t like it. She frowns on flesh peddling. She knew as a girl whose womanhood was budding that she was always one missed meal from being sold to a brothel, for Viserys never failed to remind her what a handsome price she’d fetch, and in the end he was right about that. She knows the whores of Westeros are paid for their trouble, in theory. But a woman’s body shouldn’t be her only currency, not when she has her mind as well.

_ In my world it will be different,  _ she thinks. Making love will be for passion, not transaction, and not just for the pleasure of men. She can’t help but think of Jon then, how it felt to have him inside her, or to nestle in his arms once he’d finished her and spent himself. She was safe there, safer than she’s ever been. __

_ Gods, stop,  _ she scolds herself.  _ He’s not worth it. Not worth wasting another tear. _

Missandei urges her on, toward what she assumes is another tavern, but she is drawn by the racket from the brothel, and reaches for her friend’s arm to halt her.

“Here.”

“Your Grace, I did not mean for you to see such things,” Missandei protests.

“Well, it’s cold, and I’m sure the brothelkeep has some good wine on hand. And I am not innocent to what occurs behind those doors.” She thinks of Doreah for the first time in years, the treacherous whore she once called friend, who taught her to please her husband, lessons she still applies.  _ Love comes in at the eyes.  _ If that is true, Jon Snow must have loved her more than any woman has ever been loved. Not that it matters now. She leans against the heavy oak door and turns the knob, her cloak still pulled over her head.

When they enter, all her senses are assaulted. The hall is brighter and cheerier than she expects of the North. Music plays loudly but does not drown out the ruckus of drunken men and enterprising ladies ready to relieve them of their coin for a tug and suck. She recognizes Ezzo, Addrro, and Yenno, all young but trusted lieutenants,but at the moment they can barely stand upright, let alone mount a horse. She supposes they deserve it, given what they’ve lost. Wildlings and Northmen and even an Unsullied or two are about, and it is one of them who is the first to notice her, quickly placing his mug on the table and saluting her. The Dothraki who are still conscious quickly follow suit, and soon the room goes quiet, eyes not on her but lowered, and although she has always possessed a cool confidence in the presence of her subjects, she suddenly feels naked and raw, and keenly aware of how out of place she is, not just in this brothel, but in the North. Maybe even in Westeros.

The Northern patrons mumble their salutations, and a few even kneel (or perhaps are too drunk to stand, she cannot be sure), but their deference feels hollow. Even now, after everything she’s sacrificed to save their sorry hides, they cannot muster any gratitude or respect. And these aren’t nobles, but lowborn. Those with whom, across the Narrow Sea, she always shared the greatest connection. Those whose hearts she was so sure she could readily win here, but in their eyes Jon is their king, and she the foreigner who seduced his kingdom away from him. If they only knew. Would they look on him with so much awe and adoration if his true identity were known, or would he become an outcast once more? It’s probably only a matter of time before she finds out. He made clear his intention to tell his sisters the truth, despite her pleas, and for all she knows, he’s already done just that, and the secret is no longer a secret, but common knowledge.

Very well. She may desire the love of the people, but she knows she can’t rule just by being beloved. She’s shown them her strength already, but if they do not fall in line soon, a harsher demonstration may be required. She squares her shoulders and pushes her hood from her head. Missandei wordlessly unclasps the cloak and hangs it on a rack in the corner. Dany is relieved to have her friend and advisor there with her, even if the northmen look at both of them with disdain. Whatever tenuous camaraderie has been built amongst the fighting men of all stripes, it obviously does not extend to the two women.

“Who is the proprietor of this establishment?” Dany asks, adjusting the timbre and cadence of her voice that they may not see her uncertainty. The men turn their heads to the bar, behind which rises a buxom woman, probably in her fifties, steel-gray hair pulled tight into a bun, obviously a body worn by years on her back, but if Dany looks hard enough she can appreciate a trace of common beauty. 

“I do, Yer Grace.” Dany sees that she does not make this woman a bit nervous as she straightens her back and resumes wiping some spilled ale from the bar.

“And what is your name, My Lady?”

“Tessie, yer Grace. And I ain’t no lady.”

“Indeed,” Dany says, amused. Few in the North can be called proper ladies, after all. The north women are far too industrious for that. Jon had commanded that every able bodied woman train alongside the men to fight the dead (except Sansa, for whatever reason), and somehow she doubts much training had been required. She thinks with sadness about young Lyanna Mormont, a girl who’d probably not had her first blood, who fought to defend her homeland more fiercely and capably than some men twice her age and size. She wishes she’d gotten to know the Little Bear better, for there was much commonality between them; not just a connection to Ser Jorah, but being girls upon whom great responsibilities were thrust at a very tender age. She pushes those thoughts aside quickly and regards Tessie more closely. “I do hope my men have conducted themselves respectably.”

Tessie shrugs. “Not too respectably I hope, Yer Grace, or I don’t make no coin.”

Dany’s face flushes. She’s understands commerce, and a kingdom as sparse and austere as the North only needs so many seamstresses and milkmaids and charwomen, but men’s need for a warm hole to sheath their cocks is infinite.

“Well then, she says as she meanders through a maze bodies and tables to approach the counter, “whatever these men owe you for your trouble tonight, I will double it, provided, of course, that you share it equally with your ladies.” The Dothraki may not believe in money, and likely had no intention to pay, but she cannot leave a debt unsettled and sour the northern opinion against her even more, despite her revulsion at the notion of women as merchandise to be bought and sold.

Tessie crooks her eyebrow, but if she wants to argue, decides against it, and nods. “Thank you, Yer Grace.”

“And I am sure my soldiers and your Northern guests will enjoy one more round of your ale before they retire for the night, for perhaps we ladies might enjoy some time in our own company.”

Her pronouncement elicits cheers and some groans, but Tessie and her barmaids make the rounds, filling mugs, flirting with men who are not already covered by a wench, but as the last drinks are finished, the men dutifully begin filing out, falling into the streets, laughing, fighting, cursing, and doing all the other things ornery men do when too deep into their cups. When the last has been pushed out the door into the crisp, clear night, the women gather around the hearth that sits in the center of the hall. Tessie scurries in and out of the kitchen, bringing bottles of wine, and plates of bread and cheese and dried fruit. It seems a fairly regular ritual as a way for the women to unwind from the tedium of being mounted and ridden like broodmares with no real pleasure to be found in return. Dany naturally finds herself near the center of the women, most of whom look haggard and many years older than they actually are. The North seems to have that effect.

She learns that Tessie started out as a whore but had such a good mind for figures that once her assets stopped fetching a good price, she took over management of the other girls and the brothelkeep’s affairs. When he died, the place was left to her. Hardly her dream, but it was fairly honest work, if selling women for the use of men is honest. Dany is surprised to learn that Jon’s brother and Theon Greyjoy were fairly frequent patrons of this establishment, their favorite being a girl named Ros who left for King’s Landing when the last war started. What became of her is unknown, but a King’s Landing whore can charge a high price if she plays her cards right and is open to the more perverse and exotic persuasion of customer demands. Her heart skips when Tessie tells her that Jon Snow came here once for his nameday, his brother and the Greyjoy lad intent on getting his flower plucked, but as far as she knew the boy did not partake, just sat in the corner and looked very out of place. This makes Daenerys smile in spite of herself. Jon Snow is not the sort to fuck for the sake of fucking. There has to be more behind it.

As the evening wears on, she is actually able to laugh a bit. The wine isn’t good, but it’s effective, and soothes her frayed nerves. She’s heartened to find that many of these women are good conversationalists in their way. Sometimes men don’t come looking to relieve their cocks. Sometimes, they just need someone to talk to, someone to touch or hold, even if they have to pay for the privilege. In talking to the girls, Dany learns of their hopes and desires. One girl wanted to be an artist, and even drew a picture of the moors of Winterfell that hangs above the entryway. Some of the girls have children living or dead. Most of them are orphans, some are widows, and all are here because they have no place else to go. They didn’t seek to sell their bodies, but better to be paid for their wares than raped and defiled and discarded. At least here they have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, and a sisterhood that understands one another better than anyone. Dany considers how she never really had that. Oh, there was a time with the Dothraki, with Irri and Jhiqui and even Doreah, but for much of that time she could not communicate well and didn’t understand their ways, and even though she considered them friends, at the end of the day they were in her service. Missandei is the closest thing to a best friend she’s ever known, but in her heart she knows their time together will soon end. Missandei has known freedom from chains, but Dany cannot help but feel that she’s dreaming of more than spending her years tending her Queen’s hair and clothes. She can sense that her friend is ready to move on, to a life of her own, free from politics and war. Perhaps she wishes to return to her homeland, and what sort of Breaker of Chains would Dany be if she can’t honor the choices of the ones she has liberated?

She tries not to think of it, because she can’t bear the thought of losing anyone else she loves. Of being alone. But she can’t help but wonder if she must be cursed, that everyone close to her either dies or leaves, and for the first time she’s afraid that in the end, a crown is all she will have, and what is a crown without love to go with it? Still, she knows there are always those who’ve had it worse, even some in her company now, and she decides to focus her energy on hearing their stories, laughing at their jokes, appreciating their fellowship. They are soldiers of a different sort, she supposes, and if they can be strong in their circumstances, so can she. Slowly, she starts to remember who she was before Jon Snow. The scared little girl who found her voice and power, who walked through fire and returned dragons to life, who lost a husband and a son but earned her reputation as a leader and a liberator. Who faced down the wealthy and powerful to give rise to the weak and oppressed. Who secured armies and allies before she even knew the dwarf of Casterly Rock or the Bastard of Winterfell existed. Who was the last of her kind, the blood of Old Valyria. The Queen. She needs to reacquaint herself with Daenerys of House Targaryen.

_ You’re a dragon. Be a dragon. _

And even in her wine-clouded haze, she sees so clearly what must be done.

Her limbs are loose and tingling, her chest burning, and her mood lifted by the end of the night. She isn’t completely drunk; that wouldn’t be very queenly of her. But she has found a new resolve. She will press on, for these women, and women everywhere, and for herself.

It is the wee hours of morning when she and Missandei dance more so than walk back to Winterfell and when she enters her chambers, she sinks to her bed with flourish, staring up at the chandelier above her head for a moment, contemplating. Missandei joins her and begins to help her undress, but Daenerys places a hand on hers and looks in her friend’s eyes solemnly.

“Fetch me a quill and parchment, please. I’ve some correspondence to see to.”


	3. If You Talk Enough Sense Then You’ll Lose Your Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany’s plans are revealed.

_Missandei_

“She did what?”

“She has gone, My Lords,” Missandei repeats brusquely, narrowing her sable eyes at Lord Tyrion. Across the table, Jon Snow sits, trying to appear impassive, but she has observed him enough to know that his calm demeanor does not always reveal what is roiling below the surface. It is the way of a true warrior, not unlike the Queen. But Lord Tyrion is incensed, and probably already drunk, and she has no patience for his prattling. She hands him the two scrolls she scribed for Daenerys in the wee hours of dawn. The third, the Queen had insisted on penning her self, meant for Jon’s eyes only. 

Missandei is still cross with the northerner, that he would treat Daenerys with such indifference when she opened her heart to him as she had no other. One could be forgiven for thinking that he’d simply made use of her, taking advantage of her affections to secure her resources and have her in his bed for a time, only to discard her once she’d served her purpose. But despite her soured opinion of Snow, she doesn’t think that’s the case. It doesn’t matter now, she supposes. Jon Snow is no longer the Queen’s problem. 

She folds her hands in front of her and waits as Tyrion scans the Queen’s letter, his green eyes widening as they sweep over every word.

_To Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen,_

_I apologize for my abrupt departure but haste and secrecy were imperative. I have taken Drogon and Rhaegal to the Iron Islands to treat with Lady Greyjoy, and from there I will travel to Dorne to meet this new Prince and take the measure of him. If all goes well, we will lay siege to King’s Landing with the Dornish and the remaining Ironborn, as was our original strategy. The Dothraki and Unsullied, combined with the reinforcement of our Southron allies, give us a sufficient number such that the services of the Northmen and the Knights of the Vale will not be required. They are commanded to return to their homes and wait out the winter with their families. Please extend our gratitude once_ _again to these brave men for their sacrifices in the war against the dead._

_As to the marriage proposals you have thus far withheld from me, I do appreciate your discretion and will give each suitor due consideration in time._

_Tell Grey Worm and Jharro to continue to prepare the march down the Kingsroad within a week’s time. Garrison the army at Harrenhal and await further instructions._

_Lady Sansa is to join you as our honored guest and her sworn sword Ser Brienne may accompany her. Summon her uncle at Riverrun to Harrenhal and secure his oath of fealty. I am confident that Lady Sansa will aid you in this endeavor, but be mindful, for she is a clever girl. If Lord Tully shows any inclination to refuse an alliance, do allow the locale to serve as a reminder that cooperation is in his best interest. You always did love a good story._

_Finally, I have legitimised The Warden of the North as Jon Stark, memorialised by written decree. He shall remain at Winterfell to rebuild the North, with our thanks for his fealty in perpetuity. Should he or the North require anything, we shall provide for them._

_Daenerys Targaryen I, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_

When he reaches the end he quickly unfurls the other scroll, gives it a once over, and reads it aloud.

_I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of my Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby decree that the bastard Jon Snow is henceforth acknowledged as Jon of House Stark, the lawful and legitimate son and heir of the late Lord Eddard Stark, and as Lord Eddard Stark’s eldest living progeny shall be styled the Prince of Winterfell and Warden of the North._

  
  


From her vantage point, Missandei can’t really tell if Jon is absorbing what hears, but he rises and pours himself a horn of ale, downing it in one long swallow. As she glances at the other faces in the room, expressions ranging from Lord Varys’ indifference to Ser Davos’ shock, she’s glad the Queen thought to have this done while they broke their fast in a small group, rather than in front of the larger council. What she was doing was….a lot to take in..

“Has she gone mad?” Tyrion cuts his eye to her and shoves his letter in Lord Varys’ direction.

“She seemed to be thinking clearly to me. Perhaps she’s grown tired of errant advice and decided to listen to herself for once.” It’s not usually Missandei’s disposition to be so salty, but she feels the Queen needs _someone_ to defend her, to show that some still have faith in her. Her so-called advisors have done a piss poor job of that of late.

“And where is she?” 

The occupants of the room are startled by Jon Snow’s sudden gruffness. Missandei hasn’t seen him this roused since he first entered the throne room of Dragonstone. Calmly, she places a third sealed scroll in his hand and explains that this is for his eyes only. He drops it in the pocket of his trousers, and starts pacing like a caged wolf. She wants to tell him that the Queen’s whereabouts are none of his damned business, to scold him for being so presumptuous and entitled, considering how little care he seemed to have for her well-being when she was a guest in his home. 

Tyrion, mercifully at a loss for words just now, gestures for Varys to hand over the Queen’s letter, which he passes to Jon. This raises Missandei’s hackles more. If Daenerys had meant for Jon to know her plans, she wouldn’t have addressed the letter to Tyrion. She knows the contents of Jon’s letter, for the Queen tossed several variations into the fire before settling on the one in his pocket now, and it seemed apparent to Missandei that she specifically wanted Jon to know as little as possible. But she has no time to object, as Jon reads over the letter, his countenance darkening with each word. When he’s finished, he tosses it on the table and slams his fist, the plates and utensils rattling with the force of his angry blow.

“I thought you lot were supposed to advise her. To stop her from doing foolish shit like this!”

Lord Tyrion takes umbrage, glaring at Jon over the brim of his goblet. “And you know our Queen well enough to know that she will do as she likes, and when her mind is set to something, there is no stopping her, no matter how foolhardy. I don’t like it any more than you do, but the Ironborn won’t harm her. Lady Greyjoy is quite fond of the Queen.”

Jon’s scowl deepens. “I’m not talking about the Ironborn, I’m talking about Dorne. Or have you forgotten your history? Do you not remember what happened the last time a Targaryen ruler went to Dorne to demand their submission?”

“Were you not present at the same war council we all were, Lord Jon, or Prince Jon now, I suppose?” Missandei bites back. “Lord Varys clearly stated that the Dornish prince is with us.” She takes note of the glance exchanged between Tyrion and Varys and assumes that, as is usually the case these days, there is some information they haven’t shared with the Queen. That is their way, withholding information to make themselves seem more important.

Jon remains unplacated. “But the deal you made was with that Sand woman. What authority did she have? She murdered their prince and proclaimed herself the ruler of Dorne, but now she’s captured, likely dead. Do you honestly think the heir of Dorne will honor a pledge of fealty made by his father’s killer? She’s heading into a pit of vipers, and you just let her go!”

“Better vipers than wolves,” Missandei mutters. Jon shoots a glare in her direction and she wants to slap him for his ignorance. She is viscerally angry and so weary of these men who always assume they know best. She steadies herself with a deep breath and continues. “You all forget, that our Queen had to take care of herself for many years before she met any of you, and she managed to survive. She’s no fool. She is formidable and resourceful, and you would do well to remember it.”

The bickering and sniping continues at length, and Jon appears particularly peeved when Tyrion admits that the Dornish prince - Quentyn, his name is - has conditioned his fealty after the war on the Queen accepting his hand in marriage. His eyes bulge and grow wet, and she almost feels sorry for the fool. Almost.

Lord Varys breaks the deadlock of argument at last. “She’s being smart,” the spider interjects, which surprises Missandei, for in her observation Lord Varys is the most vocal naysayer in the Queen’s circle of advisors of late. It must gall him to give credit where it is due, and not to himself. 

Indeed, Daenerys has accomplished a great deal with just a few words, he explains in his honeyed tones. She has reverted to the strategy of taking the capital with an army of Westerosi, but Westerosi who are well-rested and well-provisioned, not battle scarred and exhausted. In addition, on the surface at least, her order for the northern troops and Knights of the Vale to return to their homes appears to be a gesture of goodwill, but by taking on Lady Sansa as a guest as they venture south, she cuts the head from the snake, isolating the scheming girl from potential resources, should her intentions turn nefarious. Missandei is amused by how unbothered Jon appears at the unflattering talk surrounding his sister. 

_Because he knows we’re right, in his heart, he knows._

Of course there is debate as to whether Lady Sansa will accept the Queen’s offer, and Missandei wonders who decided that Prince Jon’s sister has any sort of power at all. The power to refuse to kneel, after her brother, the former king, yielded the North? The power to make certain Daenerys and her people knew at every turn how very unwelcome they were, even though they came to save her life and home? She’s heard Varys comment many times that power resides where people believe it resides, and why would anyone believe that power resides with a sniveling redhead who cannot not fight her own battles, instead of a proven warrior Queen with, even now, a sizable army and two dragons, and a sharp intellect to boot? Privately, Missandei disapproves of Sansa Stark being anywhere near their Queen, with her permanent sneer and backhanded remarks and utter uselessness. Also, having witnessed what she did in the crypt, she isn’t sure Lord Tyrion’s judgement pertaining to the girl can be trusted either, but lately his judgement of most matters leaves a great deal to be desired. 

She has long opined that Daenerys had erred in allowing Tyrion into her service to begin with. What sort of man goes to war against his own family? But when he was brought to Meereen, Missandei had been too preoccupied with Grey Worm’s recovery from his wounds, and when she finally regained her bearings to say something, Drogon had carried Daenerys off, and whether she liked it or not, Tyrion was firmly entrenched in the inner circle by the time the Queen returned. At least it seems Daenerys’ eyes are being opened now. As Missandei alluded to earlier, she had managed to survive for quite a long time without Tyrion or Varys. She had Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan, but it was _her_ ingenuity that led to the sack of Astapor, the liberation of Slaver’s Bay, and gaining a khalasaar of over a hundred thousand. Sometimes, there was a way only the Queen could see, and more often than not she was proved right. How she’d allowed Tyrion and Varys and even Jon to derail her instincts is a mystery Missandei may never unravel, but at least it seems to be over now, and they can put an end to this business. Then perhaps she won’t feel so guilty and disconcerted about her intention to leave.

The back-and-forth continues for several more minutes, climaxing with Jon’s declaration that he’s leaving at once to travel to Pyke, but when he realizes that the Queen will likely be gone by the time he arrives, he proclaims he will go to Dorne. Fortunately, Ser Davos makes him see reason, that in the Queen’s current state, it’s best for him to just do as he’s bid. There really is nothing else _anyone_ can do now, but what they’re bid, and so they disperse to see to the tasks at hand.

Missandei is surprised when she hears Jon say her name. She turns to look upon a man who suddenly seems much younger than his years, his expression now sheepish and almost fearful.

“Could I speak to you for a moment, my Lady?”

She sees Ser Davos pause at the door and look back at them curiously, but Jon nods and the older man reluctantly exits. This is odd for Missandei. She has never been alone with Jon before, and even though he is slight of stature, he does cut an imposing figure in his voluminous cloak and worn leathers and Valyrian sword that is nearly the length of his body from hilt to tip. She has to admit he is exceedingly handsome, and, like Daenerys, has borne far too much burden for his short lifetime.

“Of course, Prince Jon.” She manages a thin smile, even though the name doesn’t flow easily from her tongue, and doesn’t rest well in his ears either, as if he thinks she means to address someone else.

“Just Jon, is fine.”

“Very well, Jon.”

Of course he wants to know why Daenerys - he slips and calls her Dany more than once - is doing this. What could have possibly led to such a rash decision. Missandei reminds him that he was privy to the same information they had all received, and if there was anything more the Queen wanted him to know, she will have said so in her letter to him. It seems the letter is an afterthought to Jon, but he retrieves it from his pocket, and as he reads it, his visage shifts from confusion to frustration to sadness, and she can’t help but feel some sympathy as the realization hits him.

  
  


_Prince Jon,_

_If you are reading this letter, I have departed the North, and my armies will follow shortly. Please extend my gratitude to your sister for her hospitality during our stay. I trust that the inconvenience we may have caused her was minimal. I will have need of her as we make our way South, and as a show of good faith I will welcome her into my household as a Lady in Waiting. I know King’s Landing was unkind to her in the past, but in my reign things will be very different, and her fate will not be determined by the whims of cruel men. If she shows an obliging and willing spirit, she will play a vital role in remaking the Seven Kingdoms. We may never be friends as I had hoped before we met, but I can recognize a sound mind and the need to listen to those who are apt to disagree with me. Confidentially, I will not make for a good Queen if I only surround myself with sycophants and men who are far less clever than they fancy themselves. If she is not inclined to accept this opportunity, I am relying on you to do your utmost to sway her. I give you my word that she will be kept safe and will enjoy every comfort of life at court._

_As to the other document you hold in your hands, you may question my motivation for legitimising you as Jon Stark. In truth it is something I wanted to offer you sooner, but we never had the opportunity to discuss it. We never had the opportunity to discuss many things, to my regret. You are Ned Stark’s son, and now it is a matter of law. I know you will bring honor to his memory, as you have always done. Do not fret about the titles. You may not be the King in the North as an independent kingdom, but I know you will rule over it wisely and justly. I grant you generous latitude to govern as you see fit. I only require three things of you: keep the Queen’s laws, pay your taxes, and raise your banners if called upon. I do not anticipate the need for the latter, and if fortune favors us, we shall not meet again. You will remain in your homeland that is more a part of who you are, and dearer to you than anything else. I will not summon you to the capital, and if your people stay true, any business we may have can be conducted through our advisors, and I will have no cause to return to the North in my life._

_You and your men must take your rest now and wait out the winter in your homes. This is not a suggestion, but a command. If you have need of anything, send a raven to Lord Tyrion. I will be sure to tell Rhaegal that you will miss him, as I know he will miss you. None other may mount him while you live, but you must understand that I need him with me._

_I wish you good fortune, now and always._

_Dany_

“She never wants to see me again.” Jon rests his elbows on the table and sinks his head into his hands.

There is really nothing Missandei can say to that, other than, “No.”

“I love her.”

And he does, Missandei knows it. She cannot fathom why, then, he so forcefully pushed her away, and she wants to ask, but does not, because it no longer matters. Let Jon Stark live with his regret, and let the Queen find happiness with someone who can love her properly, if such a man exists. Perhaps Jorah had, but Daenerys never returned his feelings. All the men in the Queen’s orbit seem to fall for her easily, besides Grey Worm. If she’s not mistaken, even Lord Tyrion is a bit smitten. But how has the love of any of these men ever done anything for her, but hold her back? Missandei can’t believe she’s so cynical about the whole thing. She loves Grey Worm, after all. She knows it exists, that it is possible to find one’s counterpart, even in unexpected places. Jon was certainly unexpected, inasmuch as Missandei understands the workings of Westeros. And Daenerys saw past the circumstances of his birth, and his lack of decorum, and the air of foreboding he carried with him, and fell in love with him anyway, giving him everything she could, to be repaid with….not much.

“How can I make it right?” he implores, and she wants to stay angry at him, but the earnestness in those obsidian eyes, the understanding that he failed her, makes it difficult. Missandei likes Jon. She can’t help it. He’s a simple man in spite of his pedigree. There is not a great deal of mystery in him. He’s just...honorable. Good. And now, a little desperate. “Tell me Missandei. What can I do?”

Missandei clears her throat as she considers her reply. She does not want to give him the impression that he prompted Daenerys’ rash behavior, because in reality it is about so much more than a wounded heart.

“Is she your Queen?” she asks, and Jon nods. “Then do as she commands.”

She can almost see the gears working in his mind, contemplating. He’s a quiet man, but his eyes betray everything. She gives a curt nod and turns to leave him with his thoughts.

“Wait,” he halts her, and she obliges. “This Prince who wants to marry her, will she accept him?”

Missandei sighs. “I don’t know. She is not aware of the proposal, and she won’t appreciate it if he springs it on her, but in the end she will do as she thinks is right.”

“And how would this be right?” Jon rasps with a wave of his hand.

She’s getting annoyed again and takes another deep breath that expresses such. “In Meereen, she agreed to marry a nobleman who disgusted her, because it was necessary to stabilize the city. Again, she will do what she thinks she must.”

He looks so defeated, her irritation again melts away, though she feels a bit of satisfaction. It serves him right for behaving like such an ass. And the words gather on the tip of her tongue, begging for escape even though she tries to push them down, but in the end candor wins out. “She loves you, you know. No matter what, and no matter whom she marries or if she marries at all. She loves you. At least you have that.

And at that, she turns on her heel and leaves the chamber, not looking back to see the resolve settle on Lord Stark’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title credit: the song is I Found by Amber Run. Quintessential Jonerys.


	4. You Tried To Break My Heart, Well That Breaks My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany has meetings, Jonno has feels and conversations

_Dany_

Things are going so well that Jon should be the last thing in her mind, but for the melancholy that radiates from Rhaegal.

She pities her sweet green, such a good lad, such a hero. She wonders what made her so certain that Jon could mount him - perhaps, in the depths of her heart, she already knew - but it was with immense pride and a healthy bit of amusement that she watched as Jon clamored onto her son’s great back. She recalls how elated Rhaegal was, taking right off, sensing Jon’s emotions. Then during the battle, he protected his rider with his own life, fighting hard and fierce, still bearing the scars to prove it. And now she’s separated them from each other, and Rhaegal hasn’t quite been himself, though his recovery from his injuries has been swift. She tries to reassure him that all is well, that it will be over soon, and he won’t have to fight anymore, just range and hunt and slumber to his heart’s content. _It had to be done,_ she tells herself. _It had to be._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pyke is even more drab and dreary than Winterfell, but Yara Greyjoy is as hospitable as an Ironborn lady can be, keeping Dany’s wine goblet full and her spirits lifted with tales of her misadventures. It turns out that she also has useful insight into her uncle’s mindset, because while she was his captive he was quite chatty. Or drunk, or perhaps just mad. Regardless, Euron Greyjoy is driven by bloodlust. He relies on the element of surprise, but should not be difficult to outwit. 

Yara still has nearly a hundred ships and plenty of marauders loyal to her. They decide that her fleet will lay in wait for Euron’s at Dragonstone, because Dragonstone is where Daenerys will go next, or so Cersei will be led to believe, if Varys does his job well. Once that’s done, Yara’s ships will sail into Blackwater Bay under Euron’s colors and will prepare to sack the city with the Dornish, if it comes to that. She hopes it won’t. She has other plans for Cersei. The lioness will never yield, and Tyrion and Varys and Jon are foolish to believe it. Because Cersei, like Daenerys, is a queen, and queens, even false ones, do not surrender. They fight. The difference between Cersei and herself is that Daenerys actually has a care for the well-being of innocent people. A weakness, perhaps, but it’s what sets her apart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The meeting with Prince Quentyn Martell runs less smoothly. He assures her that he will honor Ellaria Sand’s pledge to fight for the Targaryen side against Cersei, for House Martell’s hatred of the Lannisters is deep and visceral. They’re owed a head or two on account of Dany’s late good sister and nephew and niece. _Jon’s brother and sister_. She wonders if Jon has ever considered them, since he seems so determined to push aside any reminder of his true heritage. She knows Cersei’s hulking beast of a henchman is responsible for their brutal deaths. He is built for one purpose: murder. But to get to Cersei, Gregor Clegane has to be dispensed. It should be Jon’s kill, not hers, but she’s made sure he will be nowhere near King’s Landing when it falls. Besides, the Mountain is at least three times Jon’s size, and though her erstwhile love is as impressive in combat as he is in bed, she can’t bear the thought of him being ripped limb from limb. There has to be another way, if only she can figure it out. But there will be time to strategize later, so it isn’t important now. What matters is Prince Quentyn’s stipulation; if she wants to secure Dorne’s fealty beyond the war with Cersei, she must accept his offer of marriage.

The Prince is not handsome, exactly; at least not compared to Jon. But he is not unappealing. His coloring reminds her of Drogo, though where her husband was tall and brawny, Quentyn is short with a stocky build. He carries himself with a refined arrogance that only comes with being highborn and knowing it. She can’t quite tell if he’s clever; on the one hand, it seems rather foolish for him to demand anything of her when she can burn Sunspear to ash with a word, but on the other hand he is obviously a student of history, and reminds her repeatedly how his ancestors resisted Targaryen subjugation for a century and a half, no matter how many times her forebears came at them. It was only through marriage that a tenuous alliance was finally sealed between the two families, before Rhaegar tore it to shreds. The Dornish memory is long, and their ability to harbor a grudge, impressive. 

She keeps the prince at arms’ length, telling him she must be careful in her choice of a husband, but perhaps once the war is won they can become better acquainted. It makes her retch to think of it. Prince Quentyn isn’t vile like Hizdar zo Loraq, nor brutish like Drogo. He is well mannered and courteous enough. And he has quite an affinity for her dragons. But he’s just...not Jon. Perhaps Jon has ruined other men for her forever. Even now, after weeks away from him - almost two moons if she considers all the time at Winterfell they spent avoiding each other - when she closes her eyes at night, it’s him she sees, his breath she imagines on her skin, his mouth and fingers tantalizing her, his name she whispers when she touches herself to keep the loneliness at bay. It’s him she wants, and she hates it. 

She can’t shake the persistent nausea that has settled in her belly since her arrival in Dorne, the queasiness borne of the certainty that her bridges with Jon have been burned, and if she marries at all, her husband will be someone she does not love. Perhaps she should take Yara up on her not so subtle propositions instead, and see if that helps. Because reminding herself how coldly Jon treated her, how he broke her heart, does not slake the need for him that burns low in her belly and dampens her smallclothes if she allows her imagination to wander.

In the end it is decided that the Dornish will make their way to the Stormlands, where they will await the Iron Fleet’s arrival. Their forces won’t surprise Cersei, but they’ll serve as a reminder that it isn’t just a horde of foreigners and Northern scum coming for her. She’ll send word to Lord Gendry to expect them, and hope that he’ll have someone to help him know what to do with that information.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She takes her time as she flies northward, miles off the coast, staying high to avoid being spotted by mariners or children or enemies that may be keeping watch out for her. The larger the dragons grow, the more difficult it is for them to not be noticed. And as Tyrion says, you never really get used to seeing them. The long flight seems to have done Rhaegal some good, and she can tell his spirit has lifted a bit as they cut eastward toward Harrenhal. Luckily, the skies of the Riverlands are overcast, and she can stay above the low-hanging clouds without freezing to death. She longs for the perpetual sunshine of Essos, realizing more and more that, no matter how long she is here or whom she befriends or what she accomplishes, Westeros will never be home. No place will be, now that Jon is away from her. She chastises herself for being so silly hearted as to ever think that she could actually have a future with him. Even if he wasn’t her kin, even if his family didn’t loathe her, he is of the North, and she is decidedly _not._

Dusk falls as the skies start to clear, and she can appreciate the scenery of rolling hills and dense forests that will blanket the terrain with lush shades of green when Spring comes, transected in every direction by rushing rivers that branch and curve like the tentacles of a kraken. Up here, it’s hard for her to perceive the people below as more than ants on the ground, knowing the power she commands could crush them all. And King’s Landing is overflowing with them.

She loses track of time while she soars above, entranced by the stars shining like brilliant diamonds, and she feels so impervious that she might reach out and pluck them from the sky. She wishes she could be up here always, that she could build her castle in the clouds, where nothing and no one can harm her. Not her body, not her heart.

But the castle looming large in the distance is firmly on the ground, seated on the shores of the God’s Eye, which looks like a black abyss. To describe Harrenhal as a castle now is a stretch, as it appears crumbling and ruined, courtesy of her ancestor and his dragon. Its broken spires reach upward like sepulchral fingers trying to capture her in their grasp. Just beyond, to the North and east, smoke and embers waft toward the black sky, and a sea of canvas tents stretches as far as the foothills beyond. Sensing their destination, the dragons screech and sing, sending bodies below scurrying about just to catch a glimpse of her wondrous sons. She lands outside the northern gate, gives Drogon an appreciative scratch behind his horns before he and Rhaegal fly off again, and is quickly greeted by the receiving party of three riders with a fourth horse in tow.

“Khaleesi, yeri sandi,” the lead rider Vhorzo says with relief.

She nods. “Qoi Qoyi,” and without fanfare she mounts her mare and they ride for the castle gates.

The great fortress is not all a ruin, as it turns out. The five towers bear the scars of Balerion’s flame, and weeds and ivy slither up almost every surface of the massive walls and gates. The castle was built to intimidate, to show its occupant’s power and wealth, but even it fell to the wrath of dragons. Still, many areas and structures remain intact, though it is plainly obvious that not much care has been given to the upkeep of the place. It’s drafty, musty, dirty and unwelcoming, not unlike most of the rest of Westeros. She is pleased to meet the castellan, Ser Bonifer Hasty, whose face goes as white as his hair when he sees her. She tries to soothe him with a warm smile, and for a moment he looks like he might actually cry, but instead he kneels and kisses her hand. She’s intrigued by the old man, and makes a note to seek him out later, but before she can exchange more pleasantries or even acclimate to her surroundings, Tyrion and Varys whisk her away to a council chamber, that they might scold her for her impulsiveness, but also learn the details of her progress. 

It is late into the night before they disperse and she is able to have a moment of peace. She embraces Missandei, who helps with her bath. Her friend informs her how irritating and miserable Lady Sansa has been so far, and how poorly Jon received her missive, and she can’t deny feeling some satisfaction in that. She shouldn’t be so petty right now. There is no time for it. 

She does notice a strange look pass over Missandei’s face as she steps out of the copper tub and extends her arms to don her bedgown, but brushes it off as Missandei says nothing. She struggles to find sleep in a room so vast it seems it was built for a giant, and she can’t help but wonder what Harren the Black must have been compensating for. 

She thinks of Dragonstone, and oddly she misses it. It isn’t the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, not even close, but still vast. It’s also quite desolate, which matches her current mood. It’s not the house with the red door, where long ago she felt safe and carefree, with Ser Willem and Viserys, when he was still good. But…. it could have been, with Jon. When they were on the ship, fucking the nights away, afterwards they’d whisper their dreams of a future that would never be. A future in her - _their,_ as it happens - ancestral castle, surrounded by poppets with hair of silver or black. He actually thought it was possible, and sometimes she’d find herself daring to hope. 

She lowers a hand to her belly, and for a moment imagines growing fat with his child, but the bitterness creeps in just as quickly as always, the thoughts of all the things she should have had that were stolen from her from the time she was a babe. Home. Family. Children. Love. A crown will never replace those things. A crown won’t bring back Rhaegar or her mother, or make her fertile again, or stop Jon from being her nephew. Won’t keep her safe, or ease her fears, or make her as happy as she got to be for a fortnight three moons’ past. Home and happiness will remain forever elusive, she despairs, but she must press on anyway.

_If I look back, I am lost,_ she muses as she drifts to sleep from the sheer exhaustion of her journey.

  
  
  


_Jon_

The first week after she’s gone is quick yet endless all the same. Much of his time is spent debating and negotiating with Sansa, who is adamant that she will not be subject to the Dragon Queen’s whims, and snarks that _guest_ is just a euphemism for _hostage._ He does wonder if her ire is so great because she’s actually fearful, or because Daenerys has interfered with some grand scheme of hers. Sansa has made it no secret that she does not intend to bend the knee, be it on her head if it must. Jon finally has to pull rank, and he orders her to go, as the Warden of the North and the head of House Stark. He tries to reassure her that Daenerys will do her no harm, as long as she is sensible. She’s offended of course; she is the Lady of Winterfell, the Red Wolf, and she’s meant to be in the North, not fawning over Daenerys Targaryen. Jon can tell how she struggles to not call him a bastard, to tell him that his words are wind and she is not bound to obey them, her eyes icy daggers tipped in blue venom. It is Tyrion who finally placates her by playing to her vanity, assuring her that the Queen needs her counsel, and she has much insight to offer. Jon only sees a disaster in the making, as Sansa is not nearly as clever as she thinks herself, and is as petty as she is stubborn. 

It should be him going South, not his sister. He understands Dany’s thinking, but he longs to be with his Queen, the woman he loves, by her side, fighting for her, seeing that crown placed on her head as she ascends the steps in the throne room of the Red Keep and takes her place on the seat of her ancestors.

_Their_ ancestors.

Now that the war against the dead is won, he’s actually had some time to take stock of all of it. His heritage. The lies that shaped his life. His shame, his anger, his disappointment, and a little bit of pride. He idolized the Targaryens of old growing up. He’d often pretend with Arya or Robb that he was Daeron the Young Dragon, off to conquer Dorne, or Aemon the Dragonknight, so noble and brave. Large shoes to fill, he thinks. And whenever he considers it, he misses Rhaegal and their fledgling bond. It’s how he knows that Bran and Sam spoke true. The dragons knew before he did. Perhaps they could smell it in his blood. Blood he shares with her, blood he allowed to separate them.

A strange thing, blood. It’s purely functional, the stuff that keeps men living. It is spilled every day, all over the world, in large quantities. But to him at least, it is so much more. Blood is what dictates his loyalty and his purpose, and for a little bit, it betrayed him and led him astray. The blood of two ancient races, of Old Valyria and the First Men, courses through his veins. Belies his life as a lowly bastard. Tells him he was meant for greatness, if he would but reach out and take it. The blood of two men - the father who sired him, and the father he loved and admired, pulling him in opposite directions, upturning his black and white world, opening his eyes to all the shades of grey in between, but too late to keep him from ruining everything and driving her away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day before the Targaryen host departs for the south, Ser Brienne of Tarth petitions Sansa and him with an odd request to arrest Ser Jaime Lannister. The “big woman” is fearful of what the Kingslayer may do, now that Daenerys has Cersei in her crosshairs. Jon recognizes the look in the noble knight’s blue eyes. It is love, and he feels for her. Daenerys will win, and if Ser Jaime does as Brienne fears, he will die alongside his sister.

It does not sit well with Jon to imprison a man for something he _might_ do. He recalls his first brush with the Kingslayer, who mocked him for joining the Watch. How arrogant and obnoxious the man was, how he wanted to wipe that smug, derisive smirk from his pretty face, but this time around he’s been quieter. Perhaps Ser Brienne’s influence has humbled him. And he did fight for the living, in defiance of his sister and Queen. So Jon refuses Brienne’s appeal, until she reveals that it was Jaime Lannister who threw Bran from the broken tower, leaving him maimed and crippled for life. Bran confirms it, and in a snap Jon is ready to forego arrest in favor of summary execution, until his brother talks him down. Ser Jaime is belligerent when he’s clasped in irons and led to a cell, but Jon assures Ser Brienne that he will be treated as well as possible. In a way he can understand the man’s state of mind, for he would also choose to be with his Queen if he could. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks have passed since Daenerys left him, one week since her army followed behind, making their trek to the Riverlands, and it’s almost as though she had never come. He’s sent a raven to Greywater Watch to make sure that they can cross the Neck again without much difficulty, but he’s helpless to do much else. He tries to focus his energy on the responsibilities with which he’s charged. He’s ordered the remaining lords to return to their homes and survey the damage, and report back with their most urgent needs. If Winterfell cannot provide relief, Tyrion assured him that the Queen would, and Jon finds himself wishing that she’ll have to, if it means a chance to see her again. 

The wheels in his head turn continuously, but she is always first and foremost in his thoughts. He worries for her. He misses her. He wants her back. He’s never felt this lonely in his life. Arya and Bran aren’t the sort of company they used to be. Davos is preparing to journey with Lord Gendry back to Storm’s End, and Jon can’t say much to that. Davos served the Baratheons long before Jon knew him, he understands the Stormlands, and he can help Gendry navigate what it means to be a Lord. Jon would be glad to offer his advice in that regard, but he doesn’t know much more than Gendry does. He’s led people before, with higher stakes against tougher odds, but this feels different. Mundane. Pointless. Lordship was never meant to be his position. He was groomed for action, not petty politics. Darkly, he resents that. By rights he was a king at birth, even if he doesn’t want the mantle on his shoulders, and even though she’s made him a Prince - another deft maneuver on her part - he could not feel less suited to the role. He considers how different things would have been if his sire had lived. He assumes that his older brother would have been the heir apparent, and he’d have been a spare like Viserys, but he imagines they all would have been raised with the same sense of duty and responsibility to the good of the realm. And he would know better what he’s supposed to be doing. 

For the first time, he wonders what his father was like. He could ask Bran, but Bran only sees things from afar, events just as they unfolded, and not the feelings or intentions behind each moment. Bran could tell him what Rhaegar looked like, and the things he said and did, but not really who he _was,_ or what he wanted. And it dawns on Jon that the one person living who may actually have the answers is sitting in a cell across the training yard.

For the next several days, he visits Ser Jaime. He has to clear the air about what happened with Bran before he can bring himself to ask anything else, and he has to figure out how to broach the subject without arousing suspicion. He sends ale and bread and broth, even some venison and vegetables, more than most prisoners would enjoy. Ser Jaime remains chained, for Jon doesn’t trust him, but slowly it seems they begin to understand each other, and on the fifth day of the third week since Daenerys left him, he finally gets the courage to ask, and the floodgates open.

He was a good man, Rhaegar. Intelligent, kind, a master of many talents. The dream of many a lady, and a few men too. He could be charming, when he wanted. People were drawn to him, like moths to the flame. But on the other side of it was a deep melancholy. He was prone to bouts of brooding; Jon has to snicker at this, knowing how many times he’s been accused of such. He was the King the realm should have known, not his mad father. Ser Jaime confides in Jon that, before Rhaegar left King’s Landing for war, the Prince tasked him with the protection of his family. The regret in the Kingslayer’s voice tells Jon that he knows how egregiously he failed in that, and he almost wants to tell him that not all of Rhaegar’s children are gone, but he doesn’t. He won’t say anything to anyone, just as she asked him, no matter how the guilt gnaws at him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fourth week, he’s in his study poring over raven scrolls, ostensibly to review the reports from the other lords. The ravens arriving is the most anticipated part of his days of late, each time leaving him breathless, his heart pounding. Not because he’s particularly anxious to hear from his bannermen, but because he’s desperate for a word from her. Her army must have reached Harrenhal by now. The silence is excruciating. 

He’s heard nothing of her, nor of Cersei. He goes to the godswood daily and prays that Daenerys will be cautious. He only met Cersei once but can see she’s not to be underestimated. He remembers Sansa’s warning from long ago, that anyone who has ever crossed Cersei Lannister, she’s found a way to murder. He knows that Bran can see every move Cersei makes if he wants to, but he has not offered. And Jon doesn’t feel right asking, for it seems intrusive and exploitative. He doesn’t want his only communication with Bran to be for informational purposes, but Bran….isn’t Bran anymore, and there is an unnerving air about him. About all of them, really. 

They aren’t the children he grew up with, Bran, Arya, Sansa. His sweet, clever little brother is detached and apathetic. Funny, lively Arya is cold and hard and distant, and Sansa is, well, Sansa, and he can’t really say he mourns her absence. The longer he’s here with his siblings, the less at home he feels. And he’s angry with them, for the way they dismissed Daenerys, for their scorn toward her, for their doubt of his judgement and motives, and ambivalence to his happiness. In truth he’s started to resent his Stark name, his Stark blood. He spent his life wanting nothing more than to be one of them, only to be reminded at every turn that he never would be, that he would never measure up to the noble Lord Eddard, who, in a way, was the least honorable of the lot, no matter his good intentions.

He’s decided he cannot read one more raven scroll, and rises to retrieve Longclaw from the corner so he can do what he does best: stab something. But when he turns he is startled to see Arya standing there. She’s a wraith, this one, and he wonders if that’s worse than Bran’s cryptic weirdness.

“What’re you doing?”

His little sister shrugs, and he notices how her dark eyes skitter about the room, ever mindful of her surroundings. He shudders to think what made her this way.

“You’re going out to train?”

“Aye.” He buckles his sword belt and throws on his cloak.

“Do you want to spar?” Arya’s gloved fingers brush over the hilt of her dagger. Needle hangs carelessly from her other hip. 

He’d laugh, but he’s well aware that she can hold her own. Somehow this little girl felled the Night King, after all. He doesn’t feel much like talking, so he just nods and pushes past her out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two hours later, he’s spent. Perspiration beads on his face and trickles down, his clothes feel sticky against his damp skin, and his muscles are tired. And he’s impressed as hell at Arya’s skill. She moves like a cat, swift and silent. She’s difficult to catch off guard, she’s graceful, like she’s performing an elegant dance, and even though he gets the best of her more often than not, she’s no throwaway opponent, and he has quite a few cuts and bruises to show for it. 

For once it’s a welcome release, to do what he’s good at. It’s mindless and natural to him. Some pride seeps in as he recalls Ser Jaime telling him what a fierce swordsman his father was, because Jon somehow would not have thought so of him. He’s not sure what he’s pictured to be perfectly honest, but a warrior isn’t the first image that comes to mind. But the Kingslayer assured him that Rhaegar knocked his ass in the dirt many times, and it wasn’t because he let his Prince win. Training with the likes of Barristan the Bold and the Sword of the Morning, Rhaegar was just that good. Coming from Ser Jaime Lannister, that means something. Jon wonders, then, how Robert Baratheon prevailed at the Trident. Perhaps Rhaegar underestimated the power of Robert’s rage, and that was his downfall. Or perhaps it’s that, unlike Robert, he didn’t relish killing. Not unlike Lord Stark. Not unlike himself.

He and his sister sheathe their swords and make their way in the godswood to give thanks for a safe training session. He frowns as he thinks of the last conversation they had here. 

“Feeling better now?” Arya mutters, breaking the stilted silence. 

“Not really.” Jon hates that things are so strained between them. Once, spending time with Arya, teasing and talking and sharing their secrets, came as easily to him as breathing, but not anymore, and he’s sad to realize that it never will be again.

She reaches out and traces her fingers over the weirwood face, as if remembering something. It hurts that she has so many painful memories. They all do. 

“I was in the crowd that day you know.” She keeps her eyes fixed on the tree. “I saw you.”

“What crowd what day?” He really isn’t in the mood for riddles. He bores his eyes at her profile until she turns and faces him.

“The winter town, when you and your Queen rode past. You looked like something from a storybook. I didn’t say anything. Didn’t try to get your attention.” She shifts her gaze back to the tree, and her eyes harden. “I guess I hoped you’d recognize me. But you didn’t. All you could see was her. It’s like she stole you from us, then she stole the North.”

“That’s not what happened Arya!” He clenches his fists. He doesn’t want to quarrel anymore. He’s had enough fighting in his life, and combat by words has never been his strength, but so much has been pent up for so long, and his little sister is an easy target. And before he can stop himself, he unleashes the dragon’s rage within him. Or perhaps it’s the wolf. Maybe both. 

He turns on her and stalks forward, and she looks like cornered prey. Almost afraid. As long as he’s known Arya, she’s never been afraid. Least of all, of him. She’s never needed to be, because he would always protect her. That’s what older brothers do, isn’t it? What families do. 

But, Arya and the Starks aren’t his only family now. 

He’s so sick of the tug of war between the two halves of himself, on one side the Starks and all the memories of his childhood, the sense of honor and duty and family loyalty ingrained into him, that bonds him to them, and on the other side Daenerys, by herself, not asking him to choose, but needing him to do so, to anchor her, to defend her too. Before, when he had tried to assure her that they could all live together, it was to ease her insecurity, but even he didn’t really believe it at the time. He’s still not sure that he does. So now all he can do is shout. 

“That’s not how it worked! And if you’d bothered to spend even a moment talkin’ to her, or hell, talkin’ to me, instead of skulkin’ around in corners and lettin’ Sansa tell you what you’re supposed to think, you’d understand that.” 

But instead of trying to understand, Arya bites back. “You don’t see her for what she is.”

“I see her for exactly what she is,” Jon snarls. “I see a Queen who set aside her own interests for years, to fight for people who couldn’t fight for themselves. Including us.” He turns his back on his sister then. He can’t look at her anymore. He’s so furious, he’s honestly afraid he might hit her, or worse, and he’s mortified at the thought. Arya is his little sister. His favorite. He would never harm a hair of her head, and he has to pull himself out of the spiral of rage. So he sinks down on one of the large, gnarly roots that protrude from the snow-covered ground at the base of the tree. He rests his elbows on his knees and heaves a deep sigh. Gingerly, Arya sits beside him and assumes a similar posture.

“We don’t need her Jon. The North takes care of its own.”

“What d’ya think the North is Arya? Certainly not what Father wanted us to believe.” He whips his head to glare at her, unsure of how much more protesting he can take. Arya used to cling to his every word. She worshiped him. Believed in him, when no one else did. Where did that go, he wonders, that she has so little faith in him now? That he can no longer confide in or trust her? 

“D’ya know where these loyal lords were when the Boltons held Winterfell? How many refused the call to arms, or fought for Ramsay? Fought for Roose Bolton, who murdered Robb and was made Warden by Joffrey? The Northmen aren’t special, Arya. The people here are just like people everywhere else. They’re gonna do what they think they must to survive. They’re backbiters and malcontents, without a drop of integrity amongst them. And she came here anyway, to protect them. To protect _us._ And what did we show for it? That we’re no better than the Glovers or the Umbers or any of the other fuckers who shat all over Father’s memory. Honor and loyalty, they mean no more in the North than any other place in this world, but it means something to me. I thought it meant something to you and Sansa too, but I was wrong. All that concerns you is self-preservation and ambition.” He punctuates his rant by punching at the weirwood trunk, but that just leaves him with sore knuckles. 

“No. All that concerns me is family. We’re family.” She tries to put a hand on his shoulder, but he jerks away. He stands and gazes at the weirwood face again, wishing that what she says were true, but knowing that it’s much more complicated.

“And what makes a family, little sister,” he scoffs. “Blood? Who you grew up with? Because I’ve learned very quick that neither of those things matter for shit. What matters are the ones who stand with ya, come what may.”

Another long silence passes, no sound but the winds whistling through the godswood, and Ghost barking at something in the distance, and he’s not sure how long he stands there wordlessly. When she steps beside him, he’s bit surprised, because he almost forgot she was there.

“I’m with you.”

He sighs sadly. “I wish I could still believe that, Arya. I really do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He and Arya have supper together that evening, but with no conversation other than to comment on the flavor of the stew. He really isn’t hungry, so he drains a horn of ale and pushes away from the table, heading back to his study, yearning for solitude so he can mope in peace, away from his sister’s prying eyes. She said she was with him, but he doesn’t know what to believe anymore, and he suspects that she was just trying to ease the tension between them. 

He tries to concentrate on the scrolls he neglected earlier, but each one reveals more of the same. There isn’t enough food, there isn’t enough shelter, there aren’t enough fighting men remaining to protect the villages and hamlets from reavers and pirates who might hope to profit from their misfortunes. There are squabbles over money and resources and women, and it’s something of a relief for Jon that the northerners can be counted on to put aside their commonality in order to bicker about stupid shit as they always have. In the stack of scrolls, he finds a missive from Lord Glover, which he immediately burns. Glover can fuck himself, for all Jon cares. He’s lucky he still has a head.

He knows he cannot accomplish much else in his current state, so he decides to try to get some rest. He hasn’t slept more than two hours in a night since….his eyes moisten at the recollection. It was on her ship, with her, their limbs tangled, her hair a disheveled mess, their breathing ragged with their exertions. They’d made love multiple times throughout the days and nights, but it wasn’t just the physical satisfaction that drew him in more and more each day. It was how right it felt, her sleeping against him, skin on skin. How at peace he was. So even if she wore out his body with her relentless appetite, no matter what, he slept soundly. He rakes a hand through his curls and remembers how it felt when she did the same, not in frustration, but with tenderness, fingering each tendril, brushing her thumbs over his brow, lulling him. Gods, he misses her. He longs to go back to the night of the feast, when he pulled her in for that kiss, so he might finish what he started. He should never have pulled away, but then he didn’t imagine it would be the last chance he’d ever have to be with her.

A knock on the door rouses him, and he bids his visitor to enter. Arya opens the door and takes a step inside the room. Funny, he half expected that she was already hiding under the desk, or crawling through a window. He doesn’t say anything, and she pulls a chair up to his desk, opposite him, and casually reclines, propping her feet up on the desktop. She produces two apples from her waistcoat and tosses one to him as she bites a chunk out of the other. He just sets his aside and doesn’t really acknowledge her.

“I was in Braavos, you know,” she reveals between loud chews, which piques his attention. In truth, he had no idea, so scarce and trite their conversation has been since their reunion. But he assumes she has a point to make, so he says nothing as she seems to search his face for some sign interest. 

And then it starts coming out in waves, her story since they were parted. It’s like the knives in his heart all over again, to learn what his little sister endured just to get back to her family. He tells his story as well, from his arrival at the Wall to his time with the free folk, about Ygritte and Mance Rayder and the battle for Castle Black. About Craster’s keep, and being elected Lord Commander, about Stannis and Hardhome and Olly. And it is a relief, truly. Of course he’d confided all of this to Daenerys, but as he and Arya spill their secrets and tragedies to one another, he realizes that this is as much responsible for the distance between them as is her disdain for Dany.

“I heard about her, in Braavos,” Arya says. She glances down at her hands, then takes a deep breath and continues. “Nothing good though. It was all about how she ransacked cities and murdered their citizens. They called her a butcher.”

“She conquered _slave_ cities, Arya. And the citizens she killed were the ones who bought and sold people, who put them in chains. Stole children from their mothers’ arms, or murdered them. Mutilated little boys, forced little girls to sell their bodies.”

“I know,” Arya nods. She scoots her feet off the desk and leans toward him. “The ones who spoke against her were probably the ones whose purses she emptied. Of course they’d have nothing good to say.” She swallows hard. “I….I don’t think she was wrong.”

“Then why d’ya hate her?” 

“I don’t hate her, I just….” her brows furrow and so do his as he braces for another petty excuse, which does not come. “I saw the dragons burn the Night King’s army. What’s stopping her from doing the same to us? Anyone who defies her, she can turn to dust in the blink of an eye. The freedom she wants to give us is just the freedom to bend the knee to her instead of Cersei. So in the end, what’s the difference?”

He can’t say the same thought hasn’t come to him. It did, quite vividly, when beyond the Wall she broke through the clouds, like a goddess of fire, to save his life. When she landed on Drogon and extended her hand, all question left him. He had to kneel, because if he did not, she could destroy his home, his people, and that’s who he’d been trying to protect by going out there anyway. So he did what Torrhen Stark had centuries before. He bent the knee to save his people, because better to be her ally than her enemy. Love had nothing to do with it, even though he’d never loved anyone more in that moment, or since then. Love just made the choice more palatable; love, and the belief that she deserved that crown. It wasn’t flattery when he told her that, but what he knew to be true.

To ease the tension in his muscles, he reclines a bit in his chair, though his eyes don’t leave Arya’s. “Between Cersei and Daenerys, who came here to fight for us, to protect us, risking her life and the lives of her men? And who sat down in King’s Landing and waited for us to be massacred?” He expects a salty retort, but Arya seems to have no argument at the moment, so he continues. “She’s not Cersei, or Joffrey, or her father. People aren’t toys to her. She wants to make the world a better place. And I believe she will.”

“Better for who, though?”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe not the people like us, who grew up in castles and always had a full belly and a warm hearth. But the people out there who never knew that, who live every day not knowin’ if they’ll survive until the next, the people who’ve been fodder for the rich and the powerful for thousands of years….for them.”

“But she decides what better means. And she’ll burn anyone who disagrees.” 

He hates that Arya is still trying to sow doubt in his mind. He recalls all the times he has questioned Dany, or argued with her. He’s still here. Tyrion and Varys, after a string of failures and bad advice are still here. He leans across the desk and kisses Arya’s forehead.

“She won’t. I promise.”

“You love her,” Arya says with a cock of her eyebrows.

As always, when someone says that to him, he feels like it’s from a place of judgement and disapproval, and it makes him blush. “Aye. I love her.”

“So what’re you doing here?”

“Huh?”

“If you love her so much then why aren’t you with her?”

It’s the question that’s vexed him since the morning Missandei announced that Daenerys had gone. Why isn’t he with her? Why wasn’t he with her, from the start? Not just since they got to Winterfell, but from the crib. It should have been that way. He should have no memory of a life without her in it. Sometimes he dreams of it, the only innocent dreams he has of her; the two of them scampering around the Red Keep or Dragonstone, exploring, pretending, learning and growing, then maybe when they got old enough…..he always wakes up at that part. He tries to shake the thought. No sense lamenting something that never happened, because it can’t be changed now. 

“She ordered me to stay here. She left. She doesn’t want to see me again.”

Arya glowers at him, leaning back again and crossing her arms over her chest. “And you’re just gonna accept that?”

“I don’t accept it, I just can’t do much about it right now. And she was right, I do have responsibilities here.”

“Oh, and there’s absolutely no one else here who can handle those responsibilities,” Arya bites with a sardonic roll of her eyes.

It takes a moment, but he catches on, though he’s incredulous. “What, you? You know there’s more to managing the North than stabbin’ the lords when they complain, right?”

“I can do it,” she groans. “I can. And Bran, when he’s not inside a bird’s brain. It will be alright Jon. Go. You have to go.”

“What if she won’t see me? What if she sends me away again?” Jon has looked death in the face and survived it. He’s seen so many unbelievable, terrifying things in his years. This prospect frightens him most.

“Then you’ll know it’s over but at least you won’t spend your life wishing you’d tried harder.” She tosses her apple core aside and wipes her hands on her trousers. He’s glad his sister doesn’t mince words, and even though she’s young, there’s a wisdom in her. He even dares to start hoping, but also wondering, as he notes a wistfulness in her eyes and a blush on her cheeks.

“I never expected you to be so sentimental,” he nudges.

“Shut up!” She crinkles her nose and nearly knocks over her chair in a rush to stand and leave the room, and Jon is relieved that things may be almost back to normal, and he grins for the first time in days as his sister bolts for the door.

“Arya,” he calls after her, and she turns, “thank you.”

And with a nod of her head, she disappears into the dark corridor beyond his door. 

And his decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s a great Fic by the brills Doxa1 called So What Now that contains a similar meeting as depicted in this chapter. No infringement intended. I’m not an ASOIAF reader but while researching Harrenhal I found that its most recent castellan is Ser Bonifer and I couldn’t not mention him. I don’t really have time in this story to expand that thread, but I want to absolve myself of any appearance of using someone else’s idea either.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	5. Standing On Your Porch Screaming Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon travels, Dany broods, and dragons reunite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s really hard to find consensus about how far apart different locales in Westeros are from one another, and how long it takes to get from one place to another. So I’m doing my best and estimating that Harrenhal is about 500 miles from Winterfell. If that doesn’t work with your understanding of the map, it’s totally OK to not say anything about it. Just go with it. Thanks!

_ Jon _

As a child, Jon was perpetually anxious. He hid it well enough, for he could not allow his Lord father to see him as anything but brave and dutiful. But most of the time, inside, he was a nervous wreck, always mindful of Catelyn Stark’s withering gaze. If he asserted himself, if he showed himself to be better than anyone at anything (besides being ashamed of his own existence), if he moved an inch outside the bounds of his status, he knew it would be all the excuse she needed to turn him out of the house.

He’d hated that loathsome Tully bitch. Probably not as much as she did him, but he abhorred her. The only living person, in fact, he could ever remember hating, finding absolutely no redeeming quality. She was a loving mother to her brood, but that just made him resent that he had none of his own. And she seemed a dutiful wife, but shouldn’t a dutiful wife love and care for all her husband’s children, even those whelped of a mistress? It wasn’t his fault, after all. He hadn’t forced his father to stray from his vows, hadn’t asked to be born, and certainly had no say in being brought to the North like a souvenir from a Dornish holiday, but instead of directing her daggers at Lord Stark where they belonged, Jon bore the brunt of her coldness and cruelty. Catelyn never struck him, never starved him, never locked him away in a literal sense, but her unrelenting hostility inflicted injury just as real. His father was never able to love him in the way he loved his trueborn children. Lord Stark was kind enough, treated him gently, offered him physical safety, trained him with sword and shield and bow the same as the others, and made sure he was educated, but Jon never knew a look of pride or approval or any touch much more affectionate than a squeeze of his shoulder or a tousle of his hair. Mostly, he knew shame. 

He was second rate in his own home, and for most of his life believed that if only he could be obedient and honorable and loyal enough, smart and skilled enough (as long as he didn’t surpass Robb), his father would  _ see  _ him, and love him like a son one day too. Therefore, any mistake he made tore at his guts, because each one - and there were many over the years, because he was only a child - just put him further away from his dream. So he’d berate himself compulsively. 

_ Be great but not too great. Be blindly loyal to House Stark. Uphold the principles of duty and honor, and consider yourself lucky you’re not living in the gutter.  _

_ One false step and that’s where you’ll be, bastard _ .

_ Never forget what you are. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you. _

_ Lies. Lies. Lies. Lies. _

Lies kept him safe from an assassin’s dagger, but not from the voice in his head that constantly reminded him what he was and what he deserved:  _ nothing.  _ Lies told him that whatever he said or did, he would never measure up. Kept an ubiquitous knot in his belly, heavy as a stone. Made him hate himself and deny himself.

Lies kept him from  _ her.  _

He still can’t work out why Lord Stark chose as he did. It was tedious, but Bran eventually told him what happened at the tower, and what was supposed to happen too. Rhaegar had beseeched Ser Arthur that if he should fall, his loyal friend was to see Princess Elia and her children returned to Sunspear, and the Queen and Prince Viserys to Dorne as well. They’d be safer there, for if King’s Landing fell, Dragonstone wound be next. But Robert wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to get to them in Dorne, and even if he seized the throne temporarily, it would only be a matter of time before Prince Aegon would be restored to his rightful place, because the Targaryens would not be so easily overthrown. The people would not stand for it, so all would be well. 

Ser Arthur could have tried to explain things to Lord Stark, but there was no guarantee that he would listen, or that he could be trusted, since Jon’s father and brother met such violent ends. No one, not even his Prince’s good brother, was getting his hands on that child or his mother. Not while Arthur Dayne drew breath. So he fought to the death to protect the baby king.

_ So many dead, because of me. _

But Ned Stark had options. He could have taken Jon to his grandmother. Or, at any point in time when his presence at Winterfell seemed untenable, Ned could have sent him across the sea, where he knew Viserys and Dany were alive and well. Jon was no one as far as Robert knew. He would not have been missed. Would have been anonymous until the time was right. Could have stopped Viserys from doing the things he did to her. Could have been with her, always, and found another way to reclaim the throne, or just live peacefully together, wherever they were. 

But they didn’t. Not then, thanks to deceit, and not now, thanks to his foolishness. 

He supposes he could just be happy with the brief time they did have, for he never fathomed that he deserved the love of such a woman. She had loved him. He knows it in his bones. And he allowed her to slip away, and now must ride to win her back.

He’s not sure what awaits. In his dreams, of course, she falls right into his arms, and agrees to never again be apart from him. She’ll marry him and they’ll go off somewhere and leave this shit country behind, because they don’t need it, they only need each other. 

But this is reality, and he’s far more prepared for the worst. He always is, always has been, because the best was never meant for him. It is his to sacrifice so others can have it for themselves, because part of him believes, even now, that he isn’t worthy of it. And the worst isn’t execution. He never has feared death, especially now that he’s experienced it. But being separated from her for the rest of his days, would be more than he could bear. It almost makes him wish he’d never met her. Almost. But not quite, because he can’t imagine living a life not knowing what it is like to love her and be with her, to make smile or laugh or come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He rides down the Kingsroad with Ser Davos and Gendry, who will be his companions until they reach the White Knife. From there, they will board a barge to White Harbour and sail on to Storm’s End, while he will continue South to the Riverlands.

He isn’t great company, but neither is Gendry, whose brooding rivals his own. After a while Ser Davos tires of trying to keep the conversation going. It’s only when they make camp that night and Gendry is plied with wine that he reveals the reason for his disposition; he offered himself to Arya, and was refused. Ordinarily Jon might have been bothered that the street urchin turned Lord would dare proposition his baby sister, but Jon knows rejection, how it feels to give and receive it. And he can’t really offer any consolation. If Arya wanted Gendry, she’d be with him now. Perhaps the same can be said where Daenerys is concerned, and he holds this ominous thought in his head as he tries to find sleep, and it festers through the night so that when he wakes before dawn, his mood is already sour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crannogmen guide him through the stinking swampland of the Neck, and he’s relieved to hear that her army marched through a little more than a fortnight past, obviously traveling more slowly than he can by himself. Their passage was without much incident, and the idle chat amongst the men that catches his ear is fairly innocuous. To his relief, he learns there is a rumor that the Dragon Queen was seen in the Riverlands. His heart thuds at the news, hoping it is not just gossip. He’s glad he’s able to make it through the marshland in a day, and when he crosses the border of the Riverlands, the air is less thick, warmer, and crackling with something he can only describe as excitement, and, perhaps, hope. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Assuming she’ll have scouting parties deployed throughout the territory, he stays close to the banks of the Green Fork, his eyes always surveying his surroundings for any sign of her men, or others. He doesn’t need word reaching her that he’s on his way, though if Varys is any count at his job, she probably already knows. But no one has run him down and arrested him yet, so he tries to be optimistic.

He pushes his black destrier, the same one he rode through Winterfell’s gates, as hard as the beast allows, but after a week of travel at about fifteen leagues each day, he understands he must let up. It’s true what he told her, that she ruined horses for him forever. 

As the sun starts to sink behind the tree line, he finds a resting spot by a pool of backwater that’s well-concealed by brush and trees, and a good place to build a fire and settle for the night. He tries to fish the pool, but comes up empty. He glowers at the horse who looks back at him disinterestedly and continues chewing on the frosty grass at his feet. For good measure, the animal breaks wind and it wafts straight to Jon’s nostrils.

“Spiteful old cunt,” he curses as he rummages through his rucksack and pulls out some dried fruit and venison jerky he swiped from the larder. He’s not really hungry; he hasn’t had much of an appetite these days, for want of her, but he knows he must eat something to keep up his strength. He thinks he’s still at least four days’ ride from Harrenhal at his current pace, and he’s terrified that by the time he gets there, she’ll already be gone, or worse, betrothed.

That thought completely kills his desire for food. One night on the ship, she told him Tyrion had long ago advised her that her best way to build alliances in this country was through marriage, it was just a matter of the best match. In his mind, that person is him, but she already has his allegiance. Perhaps he should have hedged. Perhaps he should have played the Dornishman’s game. But he was too in love with her to not offer everything at once, and since he was still just a bastard at the time, he knew her advisors, not to mention the people, would never accept it, and at best he could be her paramour. That wasn’t enough for him, but it was something at least. Learning who he really is resolves any question of worthiness; it was the issue of their relation that pushes the limits of propriety. He knows their family’s history, brothers wedding sisters and all that, and in many other houses, cousins have wed cousins, including his Stark grandparents. But it made him squeamish for just long enough that he squandered the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Sunset paints the landscape and fiery hues of red and gold as he searches for kindling, but everything is wet or frozen, so he ventures further into the brush. He’s no more than twenty yards from his campsite when he hears the destrier neigh and buck, then the sound of hooves pounding against the frozen ground. 

“Gods dammit!” He reaches the spot by the pool just in time to see the trail of muck the cowardly beast has kicked up, and his hand falls to Longclaw as he surveys the area. Was it bandits? Or a shadowcat? Perhaps a child playing a prank? 

Regardless, his steed is gone, and before he can think of what he may do next, a strange but familiar feeling washes over him, raising the hairs on his neck, the sensation followed by an unmistakable shriek, and he’s bathed in a warmth that radiates from within. His eyes turn to the opposite bank, where the massive green beast lands thunderously, folding in his leathery wings, shaking his long neck, his amber eyes meeting bewildered brown ones. He chortles and chuffs, and, as though it’s nothing, slithers across the River and cranes his neck to demand a touch.

No matter how many times Jon sees the dragon, he’s awestruck, and he cannot quite believe what’s in front of him now as he reaches up to stroke the emerald snout. 

“Rhaegal,” he gasps, and the dragon responds with a blink. Jon removes his gloves, running his fingers over the smooth scales.The feeling he has is not unlike the bond he has with Ghost, and, as he would with his great wolf, he leans his head forward, nose to nose with Rhaegal. “I’ve missed you, lad.” 

Rhaegal purrs and chitters. Jon raises his head, and makes his way round to the dragon’s right side to look him over. He reaches for the healing wound that once gaped on Rhaegal’s breast, where new scales are forming already. Idly, he wonders if dragons shed their scales, like snakes do. It would make for effective armor, if enough could be collected. 

“You’re healin’ well,” he says, running his hand repeatedly from breast to shoulder, and he senses Rhaegal’s….is it pride? He thinks it is, this massive beast reveling in his rider’s approval. 

Jon shoves his hands back into his leather gloves and looks skyward, but sees only moon and stars, and storm clouds to the west. “Are your mother and Drogon about?” Rhaegal just blinks. “I’m on my way to see your mother. But my horse….well, you ran my horse off.” He sighs and the dragon peers at him, following his every move with those great eyes. “I wish I knew your mother’s tongue. Do you even understand me?” 

He inches closer, then, to his surprise, Rhaegal lowers his shoulder and splays his wing. Jon’s eyes widen, then as clearly as he’s ever heard anything, he hears,  _ “Sōvegon rūsīr issa.”  _

He doesn’t understand Valyrian, at all. But he instinctively knows the words thrumming in his mind in a voice that isn’t human:  _ Fly with me.  _

“You wanna go up?” He’s incredulous, but he approaches, carefully toeing up Rhaegal’s wing, coming to rest on his back. He grips the spikes tightly, and in his mind, though he doesn’t know how the words form, his thoughts say distinctly,  _ “Gūrogon issa naejot zȳhon.” _

_ Take me to her. _

And Rhaegal consents,  _ “Kessa, ānogar hen issa ānogar.” _

_ Yes, blood of my blood. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Dany _

Thunder rumbles low in the distance for the third day running. Apparently for this part of the Seven Kingdoms, winter just means storms, sleet, and biting cold, and everything is grey and brown and dull and dead. She wishes they could be doing this in Dorne. It’s the southernmost part of the continent, with a climate almost like Pentos, a lush and vibrant place, from the gardens to the window treatments to the tilework on the floors to the lifestyle, reflected in the people’s apparel. During her brief stay, she’d been gifted gowns of luxurious golden silks that perfectly draped on her frame, no cumbersome sleeves or exaggerated shoulders, exposing a fair portion of milky skin that Prince Quentyn unapologetically drank in as they progressed through their talks. 

In spite of herself, she didn’t mind it. It was an effective salve to her wounded heart, to be so admired by a man who could actually be close to her equal, and who, even though his primary objective was to harness her name for his own advantage, also obviously desired her. Like Jon once did. The way Jon used to look at her, with naked need, was as good as his fingers on her cunt when it came to getting her in a certain mood. It was overwhelming. Almost from the time she met him, she wanted to bed him. But can’t bring herself to imagine Quentyn Martell as a lover, despite the reputation of the Dornish for their prowess.

At least developments in her absence were encouraging. It turns out that Lord Edmure’s fealty was fairly easily won, and according to Tyrion, Sansa had played her part quite well. Edmure Tully has as much hatred for the Lannisters as the Martells do (and the Tyrells, and pretty much every other house outside the Westerlands, and most of those within it). Tywin Lannister was responsible for the murder of Lord Edmure’s sister, after all, and also his false imprisonment on his own wedding night. They’d stripped his lands and home from him and handed it over to the treacherous Freys, and, even though that house had been exterminated under circumstances that have still not been determined, a Tully does not forget or forgive easily. She thinks of the things Jon told her about Lady Stark and how she treated him as a child, and she knows it’s true. But she can’t worry about that now. Lord Edmure had nothing to do with his sister being a spiteful cunt. As long as he can provide men for the fight, that’s all that matters. She’s not thrilled that he was promised a seat on her Small Council, for she finds him a bit buffoonish, but she’s sure she can place him in a position in which he can inflict minimal damage. She decides to discuss it with Sansa, and at least make it seem like the girl’s opinion counts for something.

So far, her judgement of Sansa Stark has not significantly altered. She’s petty and entitled, and she seems to think it’s her job to be a contrarian, but Dany does recognize some administrative talent in her. She is strikingly pretty with hair that blazes like a summer sunset and eyes as blue as frost; tall and slender, regal and poised, every inch the proper Westerosi lady, her lack of courtesy to guests in her home notwithstanding. They haven’t so much as been in the same room alone together since their futile conversation at Winterfell, but Sansa certainly is not shy about making her opinion known on any matter from battle plans to the pattern of the rugs in the council chamber to Tyrion’s need for a shave and trim. And she sees the wistfulness in Tyrion’s eyes as well. Not so long ago, he reserved those longing glances for her, though she tried to ignore it, as it made her immensely uncomfortable. But there is a different dynamic between Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa. He’s protective of her. They were married once, after all, though it was never consummated and was rather unceremoniously aborted (or was it? She really doesn't understand Westerosi law as it pertains to dissolution of marriage). Now, Tyrion has taken to following Lady Sansa around like a lost pup, hanging on her every word, defending her in council meetings, or at least trying to make Daenerys understand her position. She’ll need to keep an eye on this, and has already asked Missandei to take that on. Missandei, having a healthy disdain for both of them, readily agreed.

It is late into the night after another exhausting day of meetings with various lords, and discussing strategy to lure Euron Greyjoy’s fleet to Dragonstone, and the one issue that is a persistent wedge between her and her advisors: how best to take King’s Landing. Of course she wishes to do so with no civilian casualties, but she isn’t married to the idea. As Jorah pointed out to her so many years ago, when she was much younger and far less jaded than she is now, no war has ever been won without the spilling of innocent blood. 

Tyrion is steadfast in his opinion that the best way to victory is to incite the people to rise up against Cersei, and Dany is tired of reminding him for the hundredth time that a starving populace will not stand up well against sellswords and trained soldiers, and, furthermore, allowing people to die slowly of hunger and disease is no more humane than burning them or putting them to the sword. Unfortunately, Tyrion, Varys, and all the rest of her wise counselors are at a loss for how to evacuate citizens from the capital, as Cersei is sure to try to use them as human shields, relying on Daenerys’ sense of mercy and moral superiority. If only there was a way to take the fight directly to Cersei, to infiltrate the Red Keep and take her down, but Tyrion argues that Cersei will have prepared for such, and will certainly have set some deadly traps that are just waiting to be sprung. There are few options, none of them good, and Dany can’t help but wonder why Tyrion bothered joining with her if he is so opposed to the waging of war.

She’s weary to her bones, and has been for weeks. Every day, just after her midday meal, she’s overcome with the need to curl up in her bed and nap until supper, but there are so many things to see to, and she cannot. Many nights, she does not put head to pillow until nearly dawn. In addition, she’s still queasy, finding no food offered to her appealing. The cuisine of Westeros, at least that which she’s sampled so far, is flavorless slop most of the time. But unlike her time with the Dothraki, she can’t seem to find a taste for it now. She wants to go home, wherever that is. She wants this to be over. 

She wants Jon, but will never admit it, and by outward appearance, it’s quite the opposite, as she never mentions his name, and no one dares bring him up.

She can’t even find a moment’s peace in this solarium, where every evening her advisors have taken to congregating, to drink wine or tea and carry on something resembling normal conversation. Of late, Lady Sansa has joined them, but mercifully keeps quiet, fiddling with needlework or some other idle activity. Perhaps it relieves her own stress. Dany never learned, herself. But she can’t say she minds. The ladies of Westeros are basically raised to serve no purpose other than to furnish their husbands with children, and to preen and gossip in one another’s company while the men see to all the important matters. Dany is sure it’s not a life that would have been of much interest to her. What utility is there in knowing all the dances and songs, and being relegated to mere decoration? In her observation of Sansa, she sees that the girl also resents it. She wants power. Craves it. Or perhaps she just wants to feel relevant. Wants to have a voice. And she shall, in Dany’s new world. Everyone shall, even those whose voices she does not particularly wish to hear. It’s only fair, after all.

Right now, Tyrion is drinking and trying to tell jokes, something about a jackass and a honeycomb, but Dany really isn’t listening. She’s thinking, always thinking, about her next move. She can’t not, for her adversaries do not. She rises from her seat to peruse the bookshelf for any information about King’s Landing even though she knows she won’t find it. Her eyes fall to the spine of a book entitled  _ An History of the Blackfyre Rebellions _ when Ser Bonifer appears in the chamber.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he sputters, bowing his head. “But your men intercepted an intruder in the encampment.”

Behind him, two of her Dothraki lieutenants enter, a third figure in tow, whom they shove forward and down on his knees, and when Ser Bonifer steps aside, she locks her eyes with the familiar brown ones in which she’s lost herself so many times, and the wind is knocked from her lungs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Jon _

__

No one he knows has mastered the inscrutable expression quite so well as Daenerys Stormborn. Everyone else in the room gapes at him with faces ranging from Sansa’s shock to Missandei’s disapproval to Tyrion’s pity, but his love is completely impassive. His heart pounds as she glides across the room toward him where he remains on his knees. 

She looks delicious, her silver locks loose and falling down her back and over her shoulders. Every time he sees her, he sees her anew, as there is always something in her loveliness to discover. She isn’t wearing her usual queenly attire, but a rather simple cream and gold dressing gown, with sheer sleeves that split at the shoulders and rejoin at her wrists. The low neckline is held to with a gold silk belt around her middle, from her underbust to her hip, where it is secured by three ties. He notices the dragons embroidered on the belt; if he didn’t know better, he’d think it was Sansa’s handiwork. 

He opens his mouth to greet Daenerys, but thinks better of it. She circles him, and he can feel her stormy eyes sweeping over his form.

“If I recall correctly, I left you with clear orders to remain in the North.” She’s steeled her voice with that cool, formal tone she likes to use when trying to throw her adversaries off their bearings. The same one she used the first time they met. 

It’s still highly effective, for his mouth goes dry as he tries to form his reply. “Aye, you did.”

“And where are we now? On the map, where are we?”

He lowers his head, preparing for the dressing down he knows is coming. “Harrenhal, Your Grace.”

He keeps his head bowed but raises his eyes to follow her as she continues circling around him at that slow, purposeful pace that reminds him of a cat marking its prey. And, like a cat, she’s caught him, and now must torture with him for her own amusement. 

She flashes a malevolent smirk. “I never was a student of Westerosi geography, but Harrenhal is not in the North, is it?” She jerks her head to her Dothraki, and they hoist him to his feet, a bit rougher than necessary.

“No, Your Grace, it is not.”

She stops in front of him and their eyes meet. He loves her eyes, how they can appear green or blue or lilac depending on the light or her mood; the flecks of gold around her pupils that you only notice if you’re lucky to get close enough; but, more than that, the way they flicker with zeal and passion, the way he can understand exactly what she’s thinking, because even if her face is a stoic mask, her eyes always reveal her heart. And right now, there is a hurricane churning within them. Under any other circumstance, it would mean a right proper fuck is in his immediate future, and it springs his cock to life. It’s been too long without her. Hopefully the drought ends in short order, but not before he’s laid bare.

“So,” she sneers, her brows arching humorlessly, “you have deliberately defied me. I could have you flogged.”

“Your Grace, please….” His sister interjects, but Jon raises his hand to silence her.

“It’s alright.” He turns his eyes to Daenerys, the soft gaze he knows weakens her armor. “If that is my punishment, so be it. You are the Queen.”

It doesn’t work, and he was stupid to think it would.

“I don’t need you to remind me who I am.”

“And I don’t need to remind you who I am, Your Grace.” 

The words spring from his tongue before he can think better of it. Her eyes ignite with furor, her jaw clenches, and she’s suddenly a tiny ball of fire, aimed straight at him.

“Everyone out! Now!”

Tyrion and Missandei exchange confused glances, and Sansa looks at him as though he’s gone mad. As she brushes past him, she mouths, “What are you doing?” but all he can do is try to communicate with his eyes that all will be well, and urge her on. She obviously doesn’t like it, but she complies. At least if these are his last few moments alive, he’ll know his sister cares about what happens to him after all.

The Dothraki who hauled him before her and the willowy old man who has stood silently, observing the proceedings, file out behind her advisors. The heavy wooden door closes with a loud thud, and she waits a few minutes before saying anything, though her eyes are daggers pointed at his heart. 

Dany is fire made flesh, but he’s learned that her temper is an icy one. She doesn’t shout and swear and throw things when she’s angry. He rather wishes she would. Instead, she always seems to keep everything contained, which only amplifies what she actually feels, and eventually it will boil over, and gods help whomever is in her path then.

She stalks toward him, eyes narrowed, breaths restrained. And all he wants is to reach for her, pull her into his embrace, tell her he loves her, and take her from this place. But he stands still and waits for her to address him.

“If you ever understood anything about me, you would know that I do not respond well to threats.” She speaks with a guttural growl, like the dragon she is. 

“I wasn’t trying to threaten ya.”

She takes a step back, and crosses her arms over her chest, appraising him menacingly. “Why are you here, Prince Jon?”

“Why do you think I’m here?’ he says gruffly. “You disappeared in the middle of the night, no goodbye, no fuck off, just a letter informin’ me that you never want to see me again. Seven hells, Dany…”

“Don’t call me that,” her tone is a slap across his face. “You don’t get to call me that. If you must address me you will refer to me as ‘Your Grace.’”

“Forgive me,  _ Your Grace _ .” He cannot believe how ridiculous this entire situation has become. Things were strained between them long before she left, but it hadn’t been acrimonious. And suddenly he’s angry too. He loved her, still loves her, but the way she’s behaving now, it’s as though that love means nothing. He can accept many things, but not this. Not this coldness, this hostility. She’s being completely unreasonable and unfair, and he will stand for it no longer. He’d like to turn her over his knee and give her a good swat or two to set her straight, but she’s not a child. She’s a woman and his Queen. 

Tentatively, he steps closer to her. She stands her ground, but she also doesn’t naturally draw closer to him as she once would have. He takes a deep breath and considers next words. “I know the North wasn’t kind to ya,” he continues, ignoring a disgusted eye roll, “and I didn’t do near enough to remedy that, and I ask your forgiveness. But I think this response is a bit drastic.”

“You think this is about you? I’m trying to win a war.”

“A war I promised to fight with you.”

“And I have relieved you of that promise.” She turns away from him, moving toward the hearth, and the air around him is instantly colder. “You have everything you could possibly want. Your home, your family, your people are safe, at my expense, of course. And you’ve managed to expel the foreign whore and her legion of savages and eunuchs from your lands. The only thing I asked of you was to stay there, and keep your people in line, and help them rebuild, and you couldn’t even last, what? A month? What more do you want from me?”

“I want you,” he says softly as he creeps toward the hearth. “I….I love you.”

She finally looks at him, in his eyes, hers shaded with hurt and worse, disbelief. “Many men have claimed the same. Jorah loved me. Daario Naharis, for all his bluster, loved me. Gods, even my husband, after a time. I know it because they showed me. You bring me only words, and words are wind. I can do nothing with them.”

And now he finally realizes how grievously he’s wronged her, and the guilt is a crushing weight. She loved him, and she has come to believe he never returned that love. That he’d made use of her and discarded her. That his affection was a ploy to muster her armies and resources. It’s not true, of course. He loves her to the marrow of his bone. But in one respect she is right. On balance, he has taken so much more than he has given her, and has given her nothing she cannot take for herself. In her grief, he was distant and detached. In her uncertainty, he only caused more doubt. He knows he’s never been good at this thing between men and women, probably because he always assumed he’d never need to be. Oddly, just now he remembers his lost lover and what she said to him so long ago.

_ I’m your woman now. You’re going to be loyal to your woman. _

He hadn’t been, and the cost was her life. It seems time has not improved him in that regard. And he aims to change that, starting now.

“I’m here, now.” He summons the courage to take her hand in his, running his thumbs over her knuckles. “I wish I could change things and start again, but I can’t. All I can do is ask you to forgive me, and promise to be better from now on.” 

Even as he can feel her hand molding into his, so easily, she jerks away. “It’s too late.”

His heart falters. He reaches for her and turns her toward him, his hands resting on her shoulders, willing her to look at him, but now she will not. She’s drifting from him in a sea of resentment and wounded feelings, and his lifeline is not long enough to reach her. 

“You said you wanted it to be the way it was. So do I.”

“But it isn’t, and it can never be,” she retorts, pushing his hands down. She crosses the room to find safe distance from him, at the opposite wall beside the large, drafty windows. “I am the Queen. I belong to my people, not to myself. Love makes us weak. Vulnerable. Stupid. I can’t afford to be any of those things. Not if I mean to rule well.”

“Love doesn’t make us weak, Love makes us human.” His desperation grows the more he loses his grip. He strides over to her and takes her face in his hands, forcing her to see him. A lump forms in his throat, tears pricking his eyes. This cannot be the end. It can’t. He wants to kiss her, has never needed closeness with her more than he does at this moment. “The gods have fashioned us for love,” he whispers. “The wisest man I ever knew told me that. And I love you. And I know you love me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Dany _

She doesn’t know whether to be offended or impressed. Here he is, risking severe punishment, traveling all this way to prove himself to her. She can’t let it work, though. She can’t let him in again.

_ “I love you and I know you love me.” _

The audacity.

The audacity of him to think that all he has to do is show up at her door, bat those solemn brown eyes, and she’ll be putty in his hands again. The audacity of him to say those words like it’s supposed to mean something.

The audacity that it  _ does. _

She has to admit, it’s a boost to her wounded pride. No man has ever affected her so. To Drogo she was property, to Jorah and Tyrion, fantasy, and to Daario, a conquest; nevertheless, she cared for them all on some level. But she has never allowed herself to be laid bare as she has with Jon. He knows her, more than anyone. Knows things no one else does. Makes her feel what no one else has. Is not so easily set aside just because he gets in her way. He’s in her blood. He  _ is _ her blood. And before her now, she sees so clearly that she does the same for him. Because Jon is no liar. He’s physically incapable. His eyes reveal the story as plainly as words inked on parchment. He loves her, she loves him. 

She just wishes she didn’t. Not because she desires to hurt him. This is not a question of parity. It is a question of priority. Love means need, and she can’t allow herself to need him. Best to get over it then, and move on.

But the way he cradles her face in his hands makes it so very difficult. The way his eyes soften, the way his unshed tears glimmer with the reflection of the candlelight, the way his caress spreads warmth throughout her body, makes her mad with desire but also lulls her _.  _

He touched her like this before, to reassure her. The night of the feast, he called her his Queen, but also essentially told her that her wishes and needs did not matter to him as much as his misplaced sense of honor. That disregard is not so easily forgiven, as it turns out, and she needs to draw on that anger if she is to escape his thrall.

She grasps his wrists and forces his hands down to his sides. “You don’t know anything.”

“So I’ve been told. But I know what love is.”

Thunder cracks loudly, shaking the walls around them, then the sound of a deluge pours down, battering the windows, and she suppresses a laugh and the perfect absurdity of it. She is grateful for the divine interruption. She moves toward the entryway to summon an attendant as Jon watches her every move with forlorn eyes. 

When she left Daario in Meereen, she was indifferent to it. But hurting Jon is like a knife in her own heart. And he still does things to her. Her blood is molten in her veins, her complexion is flushed and mottled from the tumult within, and every inch of her body quivers, refusing to yield to her mind’s will to calm down. In short, she’s unraveling, and he is the cause and the cure. She clasps her hands in front of her, guarding her center. She knows that he knows she does this when she’s out of sorts, to project composure. She knows that he knows that her walls are crumbling with every passing moment in his presence. And now she can’t get rid of him, because she can’t very well turn him out into the storm. 

“I shall have Ser Bonifer find suitable quarters for you,” she deflects. “We’ll have your horse groomed, fed, and stabled for the night. You can depart for the North before dawn, if the storm passes, and I’ll send three riders to escort you on your journey home.”

He moves toward her again, and there is a perceptible shift in his demeanor, as though the storm has emboldened him. They stand at the doorway, facing one another. He smells the same as always, of leather and pine and cold, and it triggers powerful images of him atop her, below her, behind her, doing things that would make a Dothraki blush, not to mention her right now.

“I have no horse.”

“How did you get here with no horse?” She cringes at her wavering voice.

“Rhaegal,” he shrugs with a maddening half-smile.

She can’t imagine the face she’s making. How dare he? How dare  _ they? _

“He found me by the river,” Jon explains, recognizing her irritation. “I didn’t call to him, he just…..showed up. Don’t be angry with him. Perhaps he knows more than you realize. He knows I need you, and you need me.”

He dares to move close enough that she feels the heat from his body, and she has to tilt her head to meet his eyes. She tries to ignore the pulse point on his neck, where she knows he loves to be kissed, but it’s visibly twitching, which means his heart is pounding just as hard as hers is. The pull is stronger now than it’s been in nearly three moons’ time, since before the first time they slept together, and matters aren’t helped by his eyes disrobing her.

She tries to sound commanding, but can barely manage more than a squeak. “What I need is for you to obey my orders.”

He brings his face closer to hers, and the last tenuous strands of her resolve are snapped. And he knows it, because he knows  _ her _ . She can’t make her body not respond to being near him. 

“Alright,” he whispers in her ear, the soft breath feathering down her neck. “Look me in the eye now, tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll go.”

The gauntlet is thrown, and she musters some defiance to accept the challenge. “I don’t love you.”

He draws closer still. She wants to bolt but is paralyzed. She hates that he has this power over her. She’s not a silly maiden, after all. She should have more resistance to Jon’s rudimentary charms. 

“Say it again.” 

“I don’t love you,” she repeats, firmer this time, thinking it will throw him off just enough to allow her escape.

It does not. Instead, he takes liberties, brushing deft fingers up the length of her arm, pausing to toy with the fabric at her collarbone, then continuing up the column of her neck. His hands are so strong, so large considering his size, could wrap around her throat or pleasure her cunt, sometimes both if they were being adventurous, and she wants  _ more. _ She wants to fight and scream, she wants to scratch and claw and struggle, to dominate and be dominated. But he’s in the mood for a gentler tack it seems, and it really doesn’t matter, as his thumb grazes her lips.

“Say it again,” he purrs, and the tears of utter exasperation slip one by one from her eyes. He closes all space between them, his nose brushing hers. He knows her weakness, and plays it to perfection.

“I don’t -”

She’s breathless as he captures her lips, and they feel the same as she remembers, soft and pliant, sliding over hers, tentative at first, gauging her response, and when she whimpers involuntarily, his lips part, his delicious tongue seeking entry, brushing against her own. 

That fucking tongue. 

Not so adept at talking, but more than makes up for it in other areas, and it’s no time before she surrenders, and she kisses him back, hard, nipping at him, catching his lower lip in her teeth, drawing blood. The hitch of his breath is audible when she pivots and pins him against the door with her much smaller frame. If he wants, he can toss her about like a sack of flour, but he humors her, plays the part of her captive. But when her delicate hands slide under the neck of his tunic to rove the hard planes of his chest, he takes charge, his lips moving away from hers, much to her dismay, until he works along her jawline and down her neck, sucking in the tender flesh, marking her with lips and tongue and teeth, lest she forget to whom she belongs.

It’s bliss. Never does she feel happiness so pure as when she’s with him like this, as though his kiss is her shelter from all the troubles of the world, and he kisses her as if she’ll disappear if he stops. Gods, she loves him. He’s part of her, now and always, whether they can be something beyond this moment or not. She wills herself to stop thinking, just for now. Just stop and enjoy it. Don’t think of the war to come, or the world to build, those who wish her ill or good. Just him. Just this.

His calloused hands wander beneath her neckline, fondling the breasts he so loves to worship, plump and full and heavy in his hands, nipples straining against his palms. They’re tender to his touch, but pain is pleasure in this case, and she mewls and whispers, “Yes.”

Like a scene from some epic ballad, he sweeps her into his arms. He doesn’t really know where he’s going, so he deposits her on the nearby chaise, his lips never breaking contact as he urges her to the edge of the cushion and pushes her down, fumbling to ruck up the bottom of her dressing gown. His hips are fused against hers, and she feels his cock hard against her center, and wetness surges through her cunt. She wants him inside her, keens against him with a silent plea. But instead of acquiescing, he drops to his knees as he pushes the hem of her gown above her hip bones. With his left hand, he pins her, supine on the chaise. With his right, he finally provides some relief, brushing his fingers over her sopping sex, teasing her lower lips as he sucks on the supple flesh of her inner thigh. She’s throbbing, dripping wet, close to the edge already when she feels his tongue brush and swirl over her nub with purposeful strokes, relishing her salty sweetness. 

She rocks her hips to urge him on, and arches her back as he enters her with two fingers, which he curls toward her front, teasing the engorged spot inside her. All the blood rushes to her center, and seconds later, she shatters around him, her walls clenching his fingers with violent spasms, her juices coating his lips and beard. When the pulsations subside, he looks up at her with hooded eyes, devilishly wiping her nectar from his chin with the back of his hand.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his eyes black and predatory as he slithers up her body, his hardness indenting her pelvis. “Mine.”

She can’t protest. She can’t even fucking think straight, not about anything but keeping on with what they’re doing, because she’s not close to being done, and neither is he. Clumsily, he loosens the laces of his trousers. The wool fabric is itchy against her sensitive center, and she helps him free his cock, bulbous, hot, and twitching in her hand, and when she squeezes him, he yelps and wrenches her hand away. He pins her wrists above her shoulders, his eyes wide with unabashed lust, and somehow she grows even slicker with want. But she gives as well as she gets, her own eyes clouding over, all reservation gone. He nods just slightly and brushes his lips against hers, then hooks her right leg around his arm and pushes into her welcoming channel without fanfare.

He fills her so perfectly, like he was fashioned for her alone, and her walls clamp around him. He releases a guttural cry of relief, and pauses for several seconds to relish the feel of her. She knows if he doesn’t slow down it will be over too soon. It’s been too long, and in her accounting, he’s never felt this desperate for her. It isn’t just physical pleasure he’s after. He wants to join with her, to be one flesh, and not just for tonight. 

“It’s alright,” she whispers, and he pulls back and pushes forward again, his cockhead assaulting her tender womb with delicious agony, but she cares not. He -  _ this  _ \- is addictive, and it takes but one taste for the habit she thought she’d broken to resume. His strokes are hard but slow and deep. His eyes never leave hers, his upper half buttressed by his free arm so he can take in all of her, watch her face as it contorts in beautiful rapture with what he’s doing to her. His hips rock methodically, his length unrelenting against that spot inside her, and the pressure begins to build with force. He braces himself with his left arm, which forces her leg even higher, altering the angle of his thrusts to reach impossibly deeper inside her, and he moves his right hand down her body to finger her plump nub, and one release crashes into another, like waves breaking violently against rocks. Her lower back bows from the cushion, her legs locking around his waist as she cries out, and in three more strokes, he follows, her name on his lips like a poem, his seed gushing into her.

He collapses his head upon her breast, his curls wild and damp, falling from the worn leather tie she hates. Absently, she realizes that he’s made her come twice, and they’re still mostly clothed. She feels his hot seed start to trickle down her thigh, but she can’t bring herself to move yet, because she’s spent, and part of her is terrified that this is just a very good dream from which she’s loathe to wake.

But he interrupts her reverie, raising his head, gazing at her like a milk-drunk babe.

“Perhaps your bedchamber will be adequate for us both tonight?” he yawns.

And she’s quite certain it will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. For the last chapter, I need some advice regarding military matters. If interested hit me up on Tumblr, user hot-auntie-dany!


	6. I’m Crying (Cuz I Love You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A power couple emerges, but will it last?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to user Wardown for his help with this one.

_ Jon _

They finally make their way to the bedchamber, and as she ducks into the privy to freshen up, he undresses, then practically swoons belly first onto the bed, which is large enough for a family of giants. He flops over onto his back with a deep sigh, and stares at the ceiling that seems to fade into the sky above.

If he could do nothing but this for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man.

He’s so giddy, he feels like he should be skipping through a field of wildflowers, and if Robb or his brothers in arms could see him now, they’d certainly have a healthy laugh at his expense. But he can’t help it. He’s a man in love. He loves everything about her. The moonglow of her hair, the line of her neck, the curve of her ass, how her tits fill his palms but aren’t so large he might smother himself in them. He loves the way her eyes disappear when she smiles, her untamed brows, how her body fits so neatly against his, how he towers over her because as slight as he is, she is tiny.

He loves her wit. He loves her heart and innate desire to help others. Her generosity. Her courage. Her intelligence. Her passion. Her temper. Her stubbornness. Her empathy and ambition. Her fighting spirit. Her determination to right the injustices in the world, as she sees it.

He loves the taste of her, her scent, the sounds she makes when she comes, and how she sighs in her sleep, and, when sleeping beside him, how she instinctively seeks his embrace.

Even her flaws are perfect in his esteem, because they’re part of what makes her  _ her,  _ and he can’t believe how close he was to losing her, although he’s confident now that they’ve weathered the storm and will be stronger for it. But he doesn’t want to think about tomorrow or the next day, or month, or year right now. Just this moment. Just her fucking him senseless. 

He grins like a fool when she exits the privy, gloriously naked, her milky skin glowing in the firelight. His eyes rove over her form as she approaches, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, with a feline smile and wanton eyes, and his cock stiffens again. He’s always hard for her, and he imagines he still will be when they’re a hundred years old and his nuts brush his knees.

He perches on the edge of the bed and winds his arms around her waist when she reaches him, peppering baby kisses on her belly, making her giggle as his beard and moustache tickle her bare skin. He cups her ass and squeezes hard. Her bum is round as a ripe apple, and he’d love to take a bite. She does like that after all. He learned on the boat that she likes…..many things; things he certainly never heard Theon or the other men around Winterfell mention when they’d boast about their exploits with the girls in the brothels. Several times during that voyage, he feared he would actually hurt her, or she him, but she always made him feel safe, and the results were never disappointing. She makes him want to engage in debauchery he never imagined, and since then he’s imagined a great deal. But right now he’ll settle for this. There will be time. A lifetime, he hopes.

When he runs his finger down the cleft of her ass to glance over her wet center, she arches against him, her tits urging his mouth open, and when he flicks his tongue over a pert nipple and she whimpers, he can take it no more.

“Ride me love,” he husks, leaning back, coaxing her onto his lap where his cock stands at the ready.

And she does, with vigor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterward, he’s starving. A good fuck always whets his appetite, and he needs to replenish his energy, for there will be more to come if he has his way. She must sense it, for she rises and throws on her dressing gown again, but doesn’t bother with the belt. She knocks on the door of the adjoining chamber, which he assumes is Missandei’s, though he can’t see who she’s whispering with. She joins him on the bed again, and he pulls her down for a kiss, which deepens quickly, and is only interrupted by three short raps at the door, signaling the arrival of their late night snack.

Feast, more like. Salted pork, cheese, bread and soft butter and honey, ale, and some sort of fruit tart. Of course he’s so famished he would have settled for pig slop and piss to drink, but it warms his heart that she’s considerate of his favorite treats, even though he knows she doesn’t like pork. He eats heartily while she nibbles at bread and cheese.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he queries, polishing off the crust of his piece of tart. She smiles and brushes the crumbs from his beard and kisses his nose, and his heart skitters. 

“You looked like you needed it more than I.” She does help herself to a sip of ale and another cube of cheese, then sets her plate aside and leans back into the pillows, where she tries desperately to distract him by running her fingers up and down his bare arm, and before long his plate is also forgotten, and he’s divested her of her gown again, kissing her from upper lips to the lower, spreading her legs, taking the time to really relish her flavor, the combination of their fluids, bringing her along slowly but getting her there all the same. When she’s finished, he’s more than happy to let her recover, but she surprises him by rolling to her side, reaching back and pulling him toward her, lodging his thick length against the crevice of her ass, and he takes her meaning, and the blood races to his cock, which grows harder than ever as he clasps his hand around it and rubs it against her sex, sopping up her juices, slicking her back entrance to ease his passage.

“Are you sure?” he asks gently, and she turns her head toward his, tugging his face to hers, plunging her tongue into his mouth as he enters her slowly. She stills for a minute, and crinkles her nose in discomfort, but at the same time presses her backside against him insistently, throwing her right leg over his hip, then he buries himself to the hilt in the tight channel. He moves slowly, carefully, restraining himself as best he can. He loves doing this with her. He was fairly horrified when she suggested it the first time, though he knew of it, because he thought it degrading to her, but he quickly found out that his Queen can tolerate a fair amount of indignity, and it only heightens her ardor, and who is he to say no to that?

His gentle strokes become more urgent when she whispers nonsensical Valyrian in his ear. He loves that, for he doesn’t need to understand the words to know what they mean. 

_ “Kessa, kessa, kessa  _ _ Jorrāelagon!” _

He understands that just fine.

Her ass is squeezing the life from his cock, he’s afraid he’s hurting her, but any time he tries to slow down she urges him on, clamoring at his hip bone, rocking against him mercilessly. She lets go only to lower her hand to her center, where she starts to stroke, and it’s so completely naughty and arousing that he loses control and flips her over on her knees, and she does not protest, lifting her ass in the air, spreading further for him. He reaches for her sex and smears her nectar on his cock and her entrance and impales her again, and she cries out so loud he’s sure the Unsullied who are lurking about will be knocking down the door any minute for fear he’s killing her. But he can’t stop because it’s so fucking good, so tight, all his, only his, and suddenly his body seizes, seed spurting into her, and he’s hazily aware that she’s coming too, by her own doing. 

He slumps over her, kissing her ear, asking her if she’s alright, and they collapse together as he pulls his softening cock from her. He knows he should wash up and have a piss, but he’s so spent he can’t move, not yet, nor does he want to, because at least a small part of him is afraid to let go of her, even for a moment, or he may awake to find himself back in his bed at Winterfell, cold, alone, and miserable, sticky with seed from another dream about what he wants but does not deserve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Dany _

She awakens to a wave of nausea and a knock on her door. She sits up with a start, feeling the bile rising in her throat. She blames the cheese and ale. She shouldn’t have eaten so late. She coaxes it back down, though it burns, and she looks to her left where her love is still sound asleep and perfectly at peace. As quietly as possible, she slips from the bed and fumbles around in the low light to don her dressing gown. It’s probably inside out, but it’s the best she can do, because whomever awaits on the other side of her door is quite impatient, knocking again, louder this time.

“Your Grace, forgive me.”

Tyrion’s muffled voice worries her ears. He’s pretty much the last person she wants to see right now, and when she opens the door and enters the solar, she’s doubly annoyed when she sees Varys at his side.

“What is it?” she whispers sharply.

“Your Grace, we are so very sorry to disturb you at this early hour,” Varys snivels, “but there is news from Dragonstone.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She should have been prepared for it. It’s the cost of war. She’s suffered setbacks, and plenty of them, her entire life, which only intensified once she began her quest for the throne in earnest. But she was so assured in this plan, and frankly her own cleverness, that she once again underestimated her opponent. 

An amateur mistake.

And the cost of this one is a high price; not just her pride, her confidence, or her allies and resources, but, very possibly, her future.

Tears of fury sting her eyes and it’s physically taxing to stop herself from mounting Drogon this minute and incinerating all her enemies and being done with it. And honestly, they can’t stop her if she really wants to do it. Not Cersei, not Tyrion, not Jon. If a dragon truly wakes, neither gods nor men can stand in its way. And the one within her is rousing.

She returns to the bedchamber, where he still sleeps, snoring lightly. It seems what passes for warmth in the Riverlands is a bit too much for his Northern blood, so he has kicked his left leg out of the furs and has it bent carelessly to his side, revealing his hip bone and the line that leads to the thatch of hair above his manhood, just barely covered by the sheet. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d posed himself purposely to attract her gaze.

But admiring his body won’t solve this, and all it really makes her want to do is cry, because she has other things to worry about now, and for a few hours last night she allowed herself to forget. She wishes she could climb back into bed with him, spend the day resting and making love and giggling and talking as they did almost until the cock crowed that morning, but he requires his rest and she has plans to make. Her council will assemble shortly, and Missandei has to help make her presentable, as she’s completely disheveled, full of his cum, and a nauseous, weepy mess. But she needs a moment to think first, so she stands by the fire and stares at the flames again, concentrating, trying to  _ see. _

What she wouldn’t give for one of those strange red women right now. Not because she believes in their magic, though the man currently sleeping in her bed is evidence enough of it, but there is something to be said for their wisdom, and they make Varys uneasy for good measure. When she takes the throne, she’ll summon a few of them, for a different perspective, if nothing else.

_ If  _ she takes the throne.

Before she went North, she had not doubted herself in a meaningful way since she first came to power in Meereen. Her reception at Winterfell and the outright hostility she faced there chipped away at her self-assurance. She did not come to Westeros to be loved, so long as she would be respected, and they wouldn’t even grant her that, despite the sacrifices she made on their behalf. Leaving there has not made her forget, and the current predicament just amplifies what she’s struggled with for nearly three moons now.

Maybe she’s not the Queen she thinks she is. Not as invulnerable as she needs others to believe. The Northerners broke her pride, Jon broke her heart, and for weeks she was a shell, but was finding her footing once more, only to wake up to this.

It barely registers, but Jon stirs in the bed, evidently realizing he is alone. She hears him rustling around behind her, but pays him no mind, just stares into the fire. In short order, she’s enveloped in his embrace, his chest pressed against her back, arms circling her waist. He has no idea of what has transpired whilst he slumbered.

“Hey,” he rasps as he brushes her hair aside, kissing her neck. In spite of her somber mood, his lips tickling that sweet spot below her ear sends blood rushing to exactly the place she does not need it right now, and tightens her nipples, so she must summon the strength to quell her urges.

“Don’t.” She snakes her head away, breaking the suction of his lips. She does dare to turn and look at him, and she sees the concern etched on his face. She knows the worry because she fears it too. That the dream is over, and it’s time to wake to reality. 

“What is it?” he asks as she separates from him to move closer to the fireplace. “Did I find some way to offend you in my sleep? I didn’t fart, did I?”

She rolls her eyes but suppresses a chuckle. “This is no time for vulgar jokes Jon.”

Just then she’s acutely aware that he’s wearing only a tunic that barely covers his manly bits. Her cheeks flush at the sight, and she has to turn away.

“What is it?” he repeats.

And she tells him. Euron Greyjoy and his fleet laid siege to Dragonstone, and were waiting to ambush Lady Yara when hers arrived. Her ships were decimated and she was killed, along with most of her men, the small garrison Daenerys had left behind, and the few servants and tradesmen who were on the island when she’d arrived. Soldiers die in war every day, but the innocents she is sworn to protect, their deaths sting, even though she fully understands collateral damage. And it isn’t just that Euron Greyjoy outwitted her again, though that does anger her. It’s that he’s invaded her home. 

For his part, Jon listens with genuine concern. “So we’ll take it back,” he vows, wrapping his arms tight around her, kissing her forehead.

“It’s what he wants,” she argues. “Dragonstone has no real strategic value in this war, other than it belongs to me, and he is counting on my sentiment to dictate my next move. It’s a trap.”

“Of course it is. So we’ll spring the trap.”

They debate at length, half dressed, worn out from a full night of lovemaking. By her reckoning, Euron wants to lure her into the open. It would be ludicrous to devote a large force to taking back the island, though. They can agree on that much. Her reason tells her to let it ride for now, because there is nothing more Greyjoy can do if he means to keep what he’s taken. This war isn’t about naval superiority, after all. But her heart won’t let her ignore it. Euron Greyjoy has violated her sovreignty, butchered hundreds, including the first and most loyal Westerosi ally she ever made, and she will collect her due from him.

“I’ll go,” Jon insists. “I’ll take Rhaegal under cover of darkness. Stay high in the clouds, and he won’t know what’s hit him until it’s done. I’ll burn every last one of his ships into the sea.”

It’s completely inappropriate, but hearing Jon talk about combat is quite arousing. But she vehemently disagrees. “You’re not experienced enough as a rider. I won’t risk your life or Rhaegal’s.”

He cups her face in his hands. “I rode him during the battle of Winterfell while he was fighting another dragon. I survived, so did he. Let me do this for you.”

He’s trying to prove himself, she realizes. To prove his loyalty. To prove that this is about more than sex, or love, but about belief in her and her cause and her right to rule.

“Jon….”

He moves his hands from her face to her shoulders and draws her closer, his lips to her ears. “Let us not forget that Dragonstone isn’t just your home. It’s mine too. And I’ll not have the throne my father sat sullied by the unwashed arse of some ugly Ironborn scum.”

She can’t help herself, and winds her hands around the back of his neck, urging him down for a kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, much to her advisors’ consternation and protestations, it’s decided that they’ll go together, and attack at night, just as Jon suggested. They’ll burn the Iron Fleet and liberate the castle, and once the island is secure, a larger force will be stationed to fortify the defenses and rebuild what has no doubt been destroyed. In compromise, they agree to wait a bit; an immediate counter strike is too predictable. 

In the meantime, she has an epiphany. The library at Harrenhal is sparse as it seems none of the lords who’ve held the castle through the years have been particularly fond of reading. But she has pored over the tome regarding the Blackfyre Rebellions and was intrigued to learn that the Golden Company was founded by a legitimized Targaryen bastard. She must have known that once; she’s not sure why it never dawned on her learned counselors that she could use it to her advantage. She entrusts Varys to get word to the Company’s commander that she would like to parlay; their reputation for never breaking a contract does not concern her. Every man has a price, and, as was the case with the Second Sons in Yunkai, a man who fights for gold can’t afford to lose to a girl. 

If Jon disapproves, he says nothing. A flurry of activity ensues as the army of the Riverlands arrives, and it’s time to continue the march south, and there isn’t much time to discuss it further. She concedes to Jon’s request for Sansa to remain at Harrenhal until the war is won. She doesn’t trust that his sister won’t get up to any mischief in her absence, so she tasks Missandei to stay behind as well. Her friend protests, of course, but respects her decision. Of comfort to Dany, Ser Bonifer has pledged to watch over them both. It broke her heart to deny him when he asked to speak to her in private, and offered his sword to her, beseeching her to allow him the honor of fighting for Rhaella Targaryen’s daughter. The old knight had fancied her mother as a young man, and she returned his affection, but his comparatively low station relegated them to pining and nothing more. But the years have not dimmed his torch for her. _“You favor her so,”_ he’d confessed through restrained tears one day. So Dany has resolved that he must be protected at all costs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They ride on horseback with the train until they reach the Kingsroad, but from there they break away, and head east across the countryside where the dragons have gone by her command. She wishes she could enjoy the scenery more, and imagines again how lush and fertile the land must be in the Summer. They don’t have much conversation; she doesn’t really like to talk while she rides, and he is brooding over the mission ahead, no doubt analyzing every possible move and outcome. They make their way through the wild until dusk on the third day, when Drogon and Rhaegal find them above a deep ravine. By their luck, the skies are overcast but the air is not as frigid as usual, and they mount her sons and fly off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’s always heard the night is darkest before the dawn, and on this moonless night that is certainly correct. They reach Dragonstone in about six hours, staying high until they break through the clouds over the inlet between that island and Driftmark to the south, where it appears the majority of the Iron Fleet is docked. It’s a blur of fire and destruction from there, and takes less than an hour for over half the ships to be rendered to driftwood. Ironborn leap from their ships like lemmings, but find no refuge and are torched in the water. Some of the ships are fitted with ballistas, but they only have time to fire a few shots which the dragonriders easily dodge at their blinding speed. 

They hold their fire when the largest ship comes in view, as it tries to sail out of the inlet. Of course its captain would turn tail and run, but a blast of dragonfire from Rhaegal ignites the canvas and masts, all but stilling it before it reaches the open sea. The sailors try to abandon ship, but Drogon’s great tail sideswipes the starboard side, splintering the longboats, and Rhaegal strafes the port side; spitting puffs of fire, and there is no choice for the men but to jump. She doesn’t care about these few remaining sailors anyway. There’s only one man whose head she wants, and he stands fast at the helm, shouting and laughing maniacally.

_ And they called my father mad,  _ she thinks bitterly as Euron leaps from the helm and rushes to the ballista on the prow. As he tries to load another bolt, the burning mast collapses, and he has nowhere to go. Before he can join his men in the water, Drogon snatches him in his powerful talons, and flies to the shore. Jon lands on the beach, and Drogon loosens his hold on Greyjoy, dropping him at least a dozen feet to land hard on the sand, where Jon manhandles and restrains him. 

Of course the fool tries to resist, and talks nonsense, as if pissing Jon off even more is going to gain him an upper hand. Jon simply punches Greyjoy in the windpipe and kicks him into the dirt, pressing down on his neck with his heavy boot, his long Valyrian sword pointed and ready to strike. Dany nods and Jon jerks the man to his knees. She paces before him, then crouches to look him in the face. Greyjoy tries to spit more venom, his eyes wild with something she can’t describe, and she harshly cups his chin in her hand and forces his head to turn so that he sees his ship, and extension of himself, burning as it sits helplessly on the water, while his men thrash and flail about, trying to grasp anything that might save them from a watery grave. She nods again to Jon, who in turn looks at Rhaegal, and her green flies off, circling the ship, raining down a column of fire on the stranded men. She could have let them drown, but it seems too peaceful a death.

“That was your ship, was it not, Lord Greyjoy?  _ The Silence,  _ I heard it called. Apropos, don’t you think?”

He opens his mouth as if to speak, or to laugh, but no sound emerges. Jon must have crushed his throat. Good, she muses, for she is uninterested in anything Euron Greyjoy has to say.

“An impressive vessel,” she sighs as she rises and glares down at him imperiously. “The largest I’ve ever seen, I think. I can only assume that means you have much to compensate for, so what you intended to offer me when I was Queen in Meereen was not much of an offer at all.”

She’s a bit surprised when she sees Jon smirk at this insult. She knows he’s not one to toy with the condemned, he just gets on with it. She decides to take a cue from him this time.

“Ordinarily I offer the foes I have vanquished a choice. Bend the knee, and join me to build a better world, or refuse, and die. But a better world cannot be built so long as it is inhabited by men like you, who seek only to destroy, and take what does not belong to you. So, Euron Greyjoy,” she snarls as Drogon extends his neck past her shoulder, “I Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of my Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, sentence you to die.”

The man’s eyes widen, and she whiffs the scent of excrement as Drogon menacingly draws closer, baring his fangs, growling low. But she silently commands her sweet boy to stand down, and turns her eyes to Jon.

“A death by fire is too clean for such a man,” she sneers. “You are a man of the sea, so we shall return you to it. Your body will be carrion for the gulls and crabs.” Her eyes dart to Greyjoy’s again. “Prince Jon, would you be so kind as to bring me this villain’s head?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Witnessing Jon remove Euron Greyjoy’s wretched head from his shoulders and toss it into the sea is the most gruesome yet arousing thing she’s seen in a very long time, and she takes it out on him the remainder of the night and well into morning. Once sated, she rests prone on top of him, her hair fanned out over his chest as he runs his fingers through it. In other circumstances, she could imagine this as their honeymoon. That they’ve wed in their ancestral castle, like so many of their forebears had, and have consummated their union in the royal chamber. But really, they’ve just fucked each other silly, a pleasant respite from all the planning and travel and violence that has interfered with their intimacy for so long. 

Unbidden, Prince Quentyn comes to mind. She’s already received confirmation that his forces have gathered in the Stormlands. If she can win the Golden Company to her side, then the war is all but over, King’s Landing will fall quickly, Cersei will be supplanted, then the work of rebuilding will begin in earnest, and the Prince will expect his answer. She didn’t want to be his wife when she first met him, but even less now, though it makes more sense politically, for certain. If she joins with Quentyn, and Jon can hold the North for her, then truly all seven kingdoms will be hers, and no one will dispute it. It isn’t about possession, but what will be required for her vision to be realized. She won’t be able to implement her reforms if half the kingdoms demand their independence, or refuse to recognize her as the rightful Queen and are willing to burn for it. She needs them to follow her of their own volition, or there will never truly be peace, and without peace there will be no prosperity or justice. Accepting Quentyn’s hand would bring her closer to that goal.

And Jon has not offered his own, besides.

Her nose crinkles in offense at the thought, and it almost angers her, but when his hand skates down her spine and cups her ass as his cock hardens against her once more, she quickly forgets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Jon _

By midday they’ve departed, and reach Rosby before sundown, where her forces are gathered outside the town. The time to take King’s Landing is nigh, and he wishes he had men to offer her. The Dornishman does, even though he’s in the Stormlands, according to her. But fighting at her side to retake Dragonstone and destroy the Iron Fleet was certainly invigorating, and his cock can vouch for it.

He’s afraid for her, of course. Taking the throne will be easy. Keeping it is another matter. There will always be those who wish her ill, even those close to him. He did observe during his days at Harrenhal that Sansa seems to be coming around, but that could well be a ruse, for she is clever and duplicitous when it suits her. The only thought that comforts him is that he will be there to protect Dany, as best he can.

They dine in the command tent with Tyrion and Varys and Lord Tully, who regards him with as much disdain as did his sister when she was living. If only he knew at whom he was glowering, not Ned Stark’s bastard, but Aegon of House Targaryen. More and more these days, he’s starting to think of himself that way, as though the blood of the wolf has been transfused from his veins, replaced by the blood of the dragon, pumping furiously within. 

He understands that he can never reveal his secret, and it’s beginning to weigh on him. Not because of shame, but pride. He’s met two Targaryens in his life, and they are both remarkable people, and he realizes that the narrative of Targaryen “madness” has been carefully circulated over two decades for the benefit of those who ruled after them. He cannot ignore the horrors her father - his  _ grandfather _ \- inflicted, especially against his Stark family, but the Mad King was one man in a line of dozens before him, and they’d done far more good than not. And she will continue that. She will reshape this world, and everyone will be better off for it. He knows it in his bones. And he will be by her side until the end of his days. They need only make it official, the sooner the better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He settles into the cot beside her, exhausted from all the fucking and fighting and flying, but more from the mundane political conversations, so they do not make love that night. Instead, she nestles against him as always, and they quickly fall asleep. His dreams careen from scenes of an alternative childhood to images of Ned and Benjen and Robb; of his parents, or at least how he imagines them, of ice covering the world before fire burns it away. 

He wakes with a start, hearing a rustling outside the tent, and reaches for Longclaw as he creeps toward the entrance, where, much to his chagrin, he is greeted by Lord Varys. Jon doesn’t like the eunuch, with his pretty manners and shifty eyes.

“My Lord,” Varys minces with a deep bow, then places a scroll in Jon’s hand and departs without a word. This is strange and disconcerting, and Jon’s heart is in his throat when he turns the scroll to see the seal of House Stark.

Word from Winterfell.

And he knows no good can come with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Dark wings, dark words.  _ That saying holds true more often than not.

He’s been sitting at the table for at least an hour with his head in his hands when she finally wakes. The tension in his shoulders instantly releases when she runs her hands over them and kisses the top of his head.

“What is it?”

Without a word he hands her the unfurled scroll. He can’t see her face as she reads it, but he can imagine.

He can’t leave them alone for a day, it seems. They’re bloody children, his vassals, far more concerned with self-interest than the common good. And in the short time he’s been gone, it seems they’ve turned on one another, fighting over vacant castles and who has claim to what, burning food supplies, taking what does not belong to them. They make the Free Folk seem civilized by comparison. He can’t imagine how deluded he once was to think his people noble and honorable. 

She places the scroll back on the table and sighs, and the air in the room shifts, melancholia seeping in, so thick he could choke on it.

“You have to go,” she tells him. She isn’t looking at him. She’s turned away, and has moved to stand by the brazier. He’s noticed that she always seeks the fire in her times of uncertainty or despair, and this moment is rife with both. But he’s not going to let her do this again, to push him away, as he did to her in his hour of turmoil. So he rises and joins her, taking her hands in his, lowering his forehead to hers.

“I’ll come back. I’ll get this sorted, then I’ll return to ya. I promise.”

She squeezes her eyes closed and her brows stitch together, trying to hold back tears, and his heart accelerates as she releases his hands, because he knows what is coming. She looks up at him, her irises bright blue but rimmed with red.

“You can’t.” She raises her right hand to his cheek, and he leans into her touch, his heart breaking. “I know you think that I confined you to the North to punish you, or protect myself, but it isn’t true. The Northerners will never accept me as their Queen. Not willingly. I do not care for their love, but they have no respect. But they do for you, whether you believe it or not. I need you there to ensure stability. To keep your bannermen in line. You’re the only one I can trust, Jon. The only one.”

He knows; in his guts he knows. It doesn’t mean he has to accept it though. His mind races. He’s furious. Not at her. Never her. This is not her fault, but his. Never count on the Northerners to do the admirable thing when they can choose self destruction. And this is not Arya or Bran’s fight. It’s his. But he doesn’t want it to be. He’s tired, so tired, of the call of duty.

_ Love is the death of duty,  _ Maester Aemon said. If only Jon had realized then how right the old man had been.

Tears of frustration and rage and regret fill his eyes. This was never meant to be on him, but life had other ideas. It seems that, no matter which father had raised him, it was always his destiny to place service above self. But why must the cost be so high? He can give up almost anything, and has before. But not her. Not Dany. He won’t. He’s never allowed himself to want  _ anything.  _ Any wistfulness, any desire, any covetousness, he learned to bury. It’s one of the first things he remembers learning. But that is not the case with her because she never once made him feel that he didn’t deserve what she offered. Love. Happiness. Intimacy. A partnership. A home. It has never been about a title or a crown or the prestige of being part of her circle. If he could whisk her away, back to the waterfall, or across the sea, or hell, just spend the rest of their days on Dragonstone, he’d never ask for anything else. 

And now those Northern fucks have stolen it from him. 

He’ll kill them, he decides. For the injustices they’re inflicting on one another in his absence, and for tearing him away from her. They’ve awakened the wrong dragon, it seems.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers as he clasps his hand around hers. “I can’t lose ya, though. Not again.” And then it occurs to him what he must do. The only thing he  _ can  _ do.

And so he bends the knee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Yara is dead and I’m sorry but she went out fighting for her Queen, as loyal bad ass bitches do.  
> I suck at action scenes, battles, and military strategy so please overlook it and don’t “well actually” me. Thanks for reading. I know you ain’t here for the battles.


	7. They Made a Statue of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Jon have angst and resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this little Daenerys-centric salt fic sort of evolved into something much bigger to include Jon's POV too. It's appropriate because they are a package deal. This wasn't meant to be revenge on Jon, but a take on Season 8 if the characters and their behavior made sense or followed normal human behavior. I hope you've enjoyed it. And I think Daenerys did her hair toss and checked her nails. That doesn't necessarily mean forgetting Jon and moving on with someone else, or by herself, but reorienting herself to Daenerys and her goals.
> 
> The title of this chapter is based on the Regina Spektor song "Us" which you may know from "500 Days of Summer." I think it fits.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you have enjoyed this little journey. Please comment (but don't troll, come on, grow up).

_ Missandei _

She doesn’t mind it here as much as she thought she would.

When the Queen went North, and her people were treated like vermin, Missandei told Torgo Nudho that her dream was to return to Naath. She did not know if her family was still there, or if she would even recognize them if they were, but at least she knew her place there would never be in doubt.

But things have taken a promising turn since Daenerys won her throne. It turns out that the Southern people are not particularly concerned about who wears the crown. She’s heard murmurings in the streets, and the overwhelming sentiment toward their new monarch is curiosity, and relief that the Lannister queen has been deposed.

That was an ugly business. Evidently Cersei Lannister would have rather died than cede her crown, but she was not about to give Daenerys the satisfaction of witnessing either. She was found on the throne, dead by suicide, a broken vial of essence of nightshade at her feet. There were rumors that she’d been with child, but her body showed no sign of it. It was likely just a ploy to garner sympathy from her brothers, or stay Daenerys’ hand. 

But Cersei’s fate did make it clear that Lord Tyrion’s tenure as Hand of the Queen needed to be remedied. At least Her Grace allowed him the dignity of resigning, rather than sacking him as he deserved. And, as compensation for his service, he was named Lord of Casterly Rock. As much as Missandei disapproved of the dwarf, she hopes he finds fulfillment. He’ll have to be watched closely, but maybe he can build his vineyard now, and spend the rest of his days doing what he does best.

It was the highest honor of Missandei’s life when Daenerys asked her to replace Tyrion. To the Queen, trust is a rare commodity that she shares with few, and no one more than her best friend. And Missandei likes the job. It’s challenging, but she is not too proud to admit what she does not know. As a translator, it has been her responsibility for years to understand different languages and cultures in depth, so she has immersed herself in the history of Westeros, but has also gone out amongst the people to draw her own conclusions; what she’s discovered is that the ways of the Westerosi, at least in King’s Landing, are not so different from people of any other city. They go to work, if they have work. They drink and make merry when they can. They laugh and love and cry and fight, they take care and advantage of each other. They protect what is theirs however they can. The strong prey on the weak, the wealthy exploit the poor, and, mostly, everyone is just trying their hardest to survive another day.

Shockingly, she’s also found that Sansa Stark isn’t as horrid as she believed. The young woman has her own agenda, of course, but who does not? They spent near two moons together at Harrenhal, and were basically forced to find a way to get on with each other. They started by talking, and the more they did, the more they realized that they aren’t so different. Sansa respects Missandei’s intelligence, as Missandei respects Sansa’s poise and strategic mind, especially in the realm of the politics of the West.

It doesn’t mean they like each other. They don’t, exactly, Missandei will readily admit. But they function, and with two very close female advisors, Daenerys’ young reign is thriving. 

Oh, there is room for a man or two in her council. Lord Tully was made Master of Coin, a more prestigious position than the Queen wanted to bestow, but if he can add and subtract, he should do the job as adequately as anyone, especially since the royal coffers aren’t exactly overflowing. He and Missandei are scheduled to meet with the Iron Bank on Dragonstone after the coronation, and if they can’t convince those misers to be generous, perhaps Drogon and Rhaegal can. 

Ser Davos Seaworth is now a Lord with a house seat in the Stormlands, and was named the Master of Ships, a position that suits him well. It does trouble Missandei that Lord Varys remains the Master of Whispers, but he did manage to bring the Golden Company to the Queen’s side to seal the victory in the capital. Daenerys is still leery of him, but he’ll suffice for now, and he knows a fiery end awaits him if he ever tries to betray her.

All things considered, they could not have planned a smoother transition of power.

She just wishes her Queen - her  _ friend -  _ was happy. But it’s clear she isn’t. She doesn’t like to speak about it, so Missandei doesn’t press the issue, but Daenerys is lonely _ , _ especially since her engagement to Prince Quentyn ended so disastrously. She hopes the pending coronation, followed by a feast for the smallfolk and a ball for the highborn, as well as the tourney (Sansa would not shut up about that) will be a welcome distraction.

There’s just the matter of delivering this small amount of news.

She enters the Queen’s solar and finds her standing on a stool, with the seamstress on her knees, stitching the hem of her black gown while Sansa hovers, criticizing the technique, until she dismisses the frazzled girl and sets about the work herself. Missandei rolls her eyes at the irony. For someone who pretends to be so unimpressed by Daenerys Targaryen and the power she wields, Sansa Stark has certainly commandeered every detail of the coronation, and it’s probably a good thing, for the Queen has many cares on her mind.

Missandei does have to admit, Lady Sansa has a sharp eye for dressmaking. The gown is beautiful, a crushed black velvet lined with crimson silk, with a decolletage that accentuates the Queen’s full bosom. The cap sleeves are embellished with obsidian beading cut into scales, and the waistline sits just below her bust and flows outward into a long skirt with an impressive train that boasts the same scaling detail. There is a sleeveless matching cloak as well, to add just the right touch of regality. Daenerys looks uncomfortable, but breathtakingly beautiful, a true Dragon Queen. She is not wearing any jewelry, not that it’s needed. The crown, which was finished just two days ago, should suffice, though Sansa certainly thinks otherwise, and an absurd amount of time has been spent debating it.

She clears her throat, and Sansa ignores her, but Daenerys manages a half smile that quickly fades when she notices the handful of raven scrolls her Hand carries.

“More replies, Your Grace,” Missandei explains. “Your people are eager for your coronation.”

“Or an excuse to come together for drunkenness and debauchery,” the Queen scoffs. “Who is it today?”

Missandei braces herself and begins shuffling through the scrolls, ticking off names: Beesbury, Ashford, and Tarly from The Reach, House Hunter of the Vale, Lord Tarth of the Stormlands. “And from the North, House Dustin, House Tallhart, and...Stark, Your Grace. Lady Arya and Lord Brandon will be attending.”

This catches Sansa’s attention as well, and she pauses her stitching. Missandei thinks she sees the Queen’s face fall, but it passes in a blink.

“Very well, we will take extra care for Lady Sansa’s kin. Have the builders install some ramps so Bran may move more easily throughout the keep,” she orders with a flourish of her hand.

The Hand of the Queen nods, then takes a deep breath. Best to get it over with.

“Your Grace, Prince Jon will be attending as well.”

The Queen pulls her skirt from Sansa’s hand, much to the redhead’s annoyance, and steps off the stool, her rancor evident in her stormy eyes. They’d talked about this. Missandei hands the scroll to her, and she skims it before crumpling it into a ball and tossing it aside.

“I thought I made myself clear,” she seethes. “Why is he coming?”

“Because he’s the Warden of the North and the Prince of Winterfell by your own decree.” Sansa, who had been momentarily forgotten, rises to her feet, ready as always with an interjection. “If you didn’t invite him, the Northerners would see it as an insult.”

“And if he didn’t attend, the Southern houses would be emboldened to slight you in the future, Your Grace,” Missandei adds,then waits with trepidation as the Queen considers this. There really was no way around it, but to extend an invitation and hope that Prince Jon had better things to do, as if that were possible for him where Daenerys is concerned. It’s not as though they hadn’t considered their strategy if he did accept, but it’s still a problem, considering the circumstances.

“Well I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now,” Daenerys says irritatedly, “just promise me you’ll try to keep him occupied.” She cuts her eyes to Sansa to make sure the girl understands what is expected of her.

“Very well,” Sansa murmurs, “but…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what?” The Queen whips around, the train of her gown dramatically curling with the sudden motion.   
  


“I think what you’re doing is wrong and unfair.”

Missandei bites her tongue. Lady Stark has tested her limits many times, but this is bold even for her. She eyes the Queen carefully, waiting for her to strike back. This subject is taboo, needless to say.

“Is that so?” Daenerys tilts her chin defiantly and glares at the taller woman. 

Sansa takes a deep breath. “It’s unfair to Jon. He has a right to know.” 

From Missandei’s perspective, Lady Sansa seems earnest, and of course she would take her brother’s side in this. She expects an angry rebuttal, but instead the Queen just looks sad as she rests her right hand on her protruding belly. And it makes Missandei sad for her.

She suspected it when Daenerys was at Harrenhal, and, looking back further, there were even signs in the North; clothes that didn’t fit quite as well, a peculiar appetite, and an overdue moonblood. But by the time she arrived at Harrenhal, the changes in her figure were more evident, she was perpetually queasy and tired, and her blood had still not come. Missandei had considered suggesting that she be examined by one of those old men the Westerosi call maesters, but she knew how desperately the Queen wanted a child, and how convinced she was that it would never be. To give her hope, only for that hope to prove false, would have been cruel. 

It was not until after the war, when Missandei and Sansa arrived in the capital, that it was undeniable, even to the Queen. A Dothraki midwife confirmed it, and what should have been a time of joy was subdued by the fact that Jon was not there, because she’d rejected him and sent him away, and she was left with no choice but to accept the Dornish prince, lest she be sullied by the shame of a bastard in her belly, sired by another bastard, legitimized or not. That had been nearly four moons ago, and if the midwife was right, in two moons’ time or less, the heir to the Iron Throne would be born. 

They’ve tried to keep it a secret, though there is gossip. She’s been showing for some time, but not so obviously that it can’t be disguised by a high waistline or a strategically placed belt, or a cloak on cooler days. But in the last week or so, it’s become quite obvious, and is the very reason Daenerys had hoped to confine Prince Jon to the North, lest matters become immensely more complicated at precisely the wrong time.

Which is exactly what she’s arguing to Sansa now. That telling serves no purpose. That one of two things will happen: he will believe she carries the child of another man, and hate her for it, or he will realize that she’s kept his child from him, and hate her for it. He will find out eventually, Daenerys had just hoped she wouldn’t have to witness it firsthand when he does.

And there is a third possibility, one the Queen refuses to entertain; that Prince Jon will want this child, and still want her, and if he sees her like this, he’ll never leave her side voluntarily, and she won’t have the heart to let him go again. Which would be fine, under regular circumstances, but as always, circumstances for Jon and Daenerys are anything but regular.

“He does not belong in the south,” Daenerys insists. “Here, he is like a fish, flopping around on dry land.”

“Perhaps it is for Jon to say where he belongs,” Sansa retorts. “You said you came to Westeros to bring freedom to all, and freedom means the ability to choose for oneself, but you keep him chained to Winterfell because you’re afraid to face him. You should tell him. And Missandei agrees with me.”

Missandei’s eyes saucer at that. She’s never said as much. But Sansa Stark is perceptive from time to time. She wishes she could disappear as Daenerys turns to regard her expectantly, one eyebrow arched high.

“Is that so? I didn’t think the two of you could agree upon the color of the sky.”

She needs to deflect, so she clutches a handful of the Queen’s train, examining the beadwork. “We can see to it that your cloak and gown are….suitable,” she says cheerily. “With luck perhaps he’ll never notice, but he may hear the chatter, the gossip. It is a bit of a scandal, you realize.”

Daenerys rolls her eyes at this, humorless. “Why should it be? No wrinkled old man is going to dictate who…..oh, gods this place. Sometimes it makes me long for my days with the Dothraki. Perhaps you had the right idea, Lady Sansa, that I should have remained on the other side of the sea.”

“Well, you didn’t, and in one week’s time you will wear the crown,” Sansa answers as she pulls the train from Missandei’s grasp and shoots her a patronizing look, like she’s a child underfoot. Sansa leads Daenerys back to the stool and both women hold her steady as she climbs back on. “Cersei used to say that the lion does not concern itself with the opinions of the sheep. I suppose the same could be said of dragons.”

The Queen just releases an exasperated breath, and the room falls silent for a moment while Sansa completes the last few stitches of the hem, then they help her back down from the stool, and immediately Missandei retrieves Daenerys’ shift and leggings from the pile at her feet to help her change. Together, the three of them make quick work of the coronation dress, and Sansa carefully returns it to the rack.

“I’m not afraid of him, by the way,” the Queen says suddenly.

Sansa turns on her heel. “What?”

“Of Jon. I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t want him causing a spectacle.” Sansa and Missandei exchange an incredulous glance, and the Queen’s eyes dart between them.“You two are impossible,” she groans. “And I think we are quite finished here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Jon _

She’s done it. The Seven Kingdoms are hers now, as if there was ever a doubt. And he is legitimately unsure how he feels about that, as the Northern host arrives at the gates of King’s Landing, with a train of wagons and carriages. He sits a horse, because he won’t be caught dead riding in a carriage like some overfed poncey lord in silk robes who has to be lifted into a saddle. 

He doesn’t like this city. He figured that out quickly the first time he was here. It’s packed to the gills with people, it smells like shit, it’s hot and stuffy and he can’t catch his breath. Of course, when he was last here, he’d only made it as far as the dragon pit, and he wasn’t really paying attention to anything but the reason for being there, and Daenerys. He wishes he could return to that day, knowing what he knows now. Almost everything he’s done since then, he’d do differently.

It’s surreal to him that his ancestors built this place from the foundation stones. It’s a massive city of splendor and squalor all at once, the stark contrasts made even more obvious under Lannister rule. He cannot imagine actually wanting to live here, but if he’d grown up here, he wonders if he’d have the same distaste for the desolate expanse of the North. He does have to admit that King’s Landing is breathtaking on approach, with the massive walls surrounding it, and the Red Keep standing stalwart over it all, visible from every vantage point, its towers and spires gleaming in the sunlight. The man who built it was a monster, who designed it to intimidate and impress and symbolize the unyielding power of the dragonriders of House Targaryen. And she’s inside now, where she belonged from the beginning. Where he should have been with her.

He tries not to think about that. He wants to get moving. The southern sun beats down on his shoulders. It seems winter never really did come to the Crownlands, though the mornings are quite cold. His cloak is too warm and confining, and itches the scruff of his neck, but he feels naked without it, and he’s only interested in being naked if Daenerys is involved. He’ll have to shed it for the festivities, or he’ll never hear the end of it from Sansa. He feels a bit silly that one of these carriages contains a trunk full of new clothes for the occasion. Surprisingly, Arya pushed him to it. He has to look his best. He’s a Prince, after all, and princes don’t just go around wearing the same smelly leather doublet and tattered wool trousers, and old boots caked in manure and mud for days on end. This is an auspicious event. Although, Arya isn’t about to heed her own counsel and dress like a proper lady herself, and he’s sure Sansa will have plenty to say to that as well.

He hasn’t heard from his sister since he left Harrenhal with Daenerys. He hasn’t written, nor has she, though he recognized her elegant penmanship on the invitation to the coronation events. Reading between the lines, it was clear his presence was….discouraged. But not forbidden. So it took him no time at all to accept. There was no way in the seven hells he was going to miss this, even if he can only glimpse the Queen from afar.

He’s spent most of the three-sennight journey south contemplating what to say to Dany, if he’s lucky enough for a private audience. Truth be told, he hasn’t thought of much else for nearly four months. Since she’d been kind enough to loan him about three dozen of her men when she sent him back to the North, he was able to calm the unrest fairly quickly. Most of it was handled when he took Glover’s head. The prick had it coming. Jon can abide many things, but not oathbreaking, and he’s tired of being forgiving and merciful, only to have more offenses leveled at him and his people. A wolf left Winterfell, and a dragon had returned in his place. He thinks he’s finally come to terms with that. As he once told Theon, he didn’t have to choose. And when it comes to loving Daenerys, it’s not as if he has a choice anyway. She’ll never leave him, no matter how far he is from her.

Arya appears beside him, astride a grey palfrey. 

“Never thought I’d be back in this shithole,” she quips, and Jon just chuckles. She’s quiet for a moment, her face hardening, and he wonders if she’s recalling the traumas she endured in this city. He should have been there to keep her safe, and he wasn’t, again for the sake of lies. 

“You nervous?” she asks by and by.

He shakes his head. Truth be told, he cannot name what he’s feeling. He’s prepared himself for every possibility when he sees Daenerys again. He wonders if she’ll look different somehow, now that she’s really the Queen. She always was, in his eyes, but sometimes, in her rawest and most vulnerable moments that she shared with him alone, he knows she wasn’t always so sure of it herself. 

The guards inspect their train carefully before allowing them through the Gate of the Gods. By their different armor, They appear to be a mishmash of Westerosi and Golden Company, with a few Dothraki and Unsullied sprinkled in. He grows impatient, and can imagine the grumblings of his bannermen, but he understands it is necessary. Daenerys trusts Northerners less than she trusts almost anyone. Some of the Dothraki and Unsullied recognize him, tipping their heads as a rudimentary sign of respect. Time seems at a standstill, and he is restless, crawling in his skin. Fortunately, his vassals seem to have behaved themselves for once, and finally the gates open to reveal the city beyond. 

He urges his horse forward and dismounts when he sees Sansa and Missandei just inside. He strides purposefully to his sister and embraces her, and gives Missandei a deferential nod. Then he surveys the scene in front of him. Seemingly every structure is decked out in Targaryen regalia, and citizens and visitors mill about, trying to ignore the shouts from vendors who have gathered just inside the gates to peddle their special wares in honor of the Queen’s coronation. His heart bubbles over with pride with every three-headed dragon he sees. It’s just….right. The way things should be, save one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Starks are given rooms in the Maidenvault, and as soon as he’s settled, he’s led to the bathhouse to wash away the dirt and grime and stench of the journey. No one bothers him, and he’s able to scrub his skin until it's red, and wash his curls with real soap and oils, then just soak to soothe his weary muscles. He could close his eyes and drift to sleep, but there’s so much to take in, here in the Red Keep.

_ It should always have been hers,  _ he muses. 

He dines with his siblings after, and they have a fine meal of a strange sort of fish called lobster, smothered in butter and herbs; a dark red wine he actually likes the taste of; roasted carrots and onions, and lemon cakes. It was naive of him to hope Dany would join them, but she does not. He’s seen hide nor hair of her, and he’s been here for hours. He tries to ask Sansa about her, but she’s evasive, offering trite answers then changing the subject. It is obvious there are things she’s keeping from him, and he resolves to get to the heart of it. Whatever he must do to speak to the Queen alone, he will do. He’s not sure even now that he can change her mind. But he has to try. And with the Dornishman out of the way, her excuses will be much harder to offer.

He smiles to himself when he thinks of that, though he feels guilty for it. He’s not sure exactly what happened, only that the Prince of Dorne met some tragic end before he and Daenerys could be wed. Jon’s never wished death on anyone (maybe Lady Stark a time or two when he was very young, and Ser Alliser of course), but he can’t help thinking that the gods may be on his side in this. But part of him is ready to be gutted again. He hasn’t spoken to anyone of the day she sent him away. When he returned to Winterfell, he was dejected, ready to admit defeat, but there was no time to wallow, as Glover and his cohorts had to be managed. Then there was the business of guiding Free Folk back to Castle Black, where they intended to wait out the rest of winter. He’d never wanted to lay eyes on that place again, but at least while he was there he was able to devise the perfect gift for her: a parcel full of letters Rhaegar had written to Maester Aemon, as well as a diary their uncle had kept as a much younger man. It’s actually something he’d like to have for himself, but he can’t not share it with her. Perhaps it will help his cause.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Dany _

She does not greet the Starks when they arrive. She cannot welcome each noble house personally, with more pouring through the city gates each hour, so she leaves that to her advisors, whom she trusts to inform her of any insult or threat that might be directed at her. 

But she knows they’re here. She knows  _ he’s _ here. She can feel it, especially when her babe kicks her ribs and tumbles in her womb, as if eager to be near its father.

She doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl. With Rhaego, there was no doubt in her mind. There couldn’t be. If Drogo thought she was bearing him a daughter, who’s to say what he may have done? But she doesn’t dare contemplate this one, because she still can’t quite accept that it’s real. That  _ this  _ happened. Jon was right after all, when he suggested that Mirri Maz Dur was false. There was no curse. There never was.

She knows Jon would not care one way or another about his child’s gender, so long as the little one is healthy and safe. She’s made great efforts not to imagine him as a father. Not to imagine  _ them  _ as a  _ family.  _ But right now she can’t avoid it, because he is so close, and her mind wanders to envision him holding a wee girl in his arms, silver of hair and brown of eye, and she cannot fathom the bounds of his doting. He’d be a wonderful father. He’d be fiercely protective. Affectionate and tender. Reliable, solid, and pouring into his babe every drop of the love denied him as a child. She would be safe and happy, she would have everything her parents never did when they were growing up..

It guts her to have to do this. To lie. She’s never had qualms about being deceitful when it’s necessary, but with Jon, it sickens her, because it flies in the face of everything she loves about him. 

Fate is a cruel bitch indeed. Daario’s seed never took, confirming her barrenness, but Jon’s had, somewhere between Dragonstone and White Harbour, or perhaps on the Kingsroad on the way to Winterfell. She hopes it happened on the ship. The notion of her child being conceived in the North is not one she wishes to entertain. This one is hers, not theirs. A dragon, not a wolf. 

She’d perceived for a bit that something was not quite right, but it had not truly occurred to her that she could be with child. They obviously hadn’t been careful, but she never thought she needed to be. Her moonblood did not come when it should have, her breasts were tender, and she was tired and nauseous most of the time, but she attributed it to the stresses of war and grief. But not two days after Jon departed Rosby, she was trying to squeeze into her battle dress, when she felt the soft flutters in her belly, and she dared to hope. She thought of chasing after him, and taking him up on all he’d offered, but when she emerged from her tent on the knoll overlooking the town, and she saw the tens of thousands of soldiers who had gathered in her name to march on the capital, she could not. So she put it out of her mind, telling herself that she was just gassy from too much wine, or some strange ailment was to blame, or that she was simply mad. Besides, even if it were true that the impossible had happened, Jon was her past, and she had to concentrate on the future.

_ If I look back, I am lost. _

It’s been her creed for years, because she’s seldom had a choice but to press on. Looking back hasn’t just meant getting lost. Many times, it very well could have meant her death. But now the pace of her life has slowed somewhat, and for once she isn’t in immediate mortal danger, and with each passing day as the babe grows in her belly, she struggles more and more to keep her eyes forward. She still loves him.. And to have him here, so close yet out of reach….she’s not sure she has the strength to get through it.

Perhaps another noble Southern lady will catch his eye while he’s here, or perhaps he has some Northern lass waiting for him at home; maybe a commoner with big tits, or another buck-toothed wildling girl to warm his bed. She is reminded that he defied her orders and ran after her like a lovesick fool once before, but he did not take her refusal so well. He hadn’t raged or made an arse of himself, but she could see the grievous wounds she’d inflicted in his eyes, and she wouldn’t blame him if all he feels for her now is antipathy. The thought turns her stomach, but she may as well accept the possibility.

She peers out the window of the royal chamber to the city below as she recalls the day it happened. 

_ If she could have described all the ways she’d imagined this moment, this would not be among them, but there they were, with Jon on his knees before her, joining his hands with hers, his eyes pleading. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. To an observer, it would appear quite romantic; she in nothing but a thin robe, he with his tunic untied and gaping open to reveal his muscled chest, his hair a halo of wild black curls, her long single braid falling to her waist like a rope of silver-gold. They could not have looked more like something from a song if he’d come upon her, bathing in the river, giggling and singing with her pretty maids all around her. _

_ But this wasn’t a song, a rhapsody, an ode to young lovers destined for one another. It was just another road to disaster, and it was hers to avert. _

_ “Oh for goodness’ sake, Jon, get up,” she beseeched him. _

_ “No,” he refused, holding fast, squeezing her hands so tight, her mother’s ring indented her finger. “I should have done this months ago. Before we ever set foot in the North. Maybe I didn’t think I was worthy. Maybe I’m still not, but by my reckoning no one else is either, so I’m as good a choice as any. And I love you. Will you have me as your husband?” _

Every fiber in her body had screamed at her to say yes. Pragmatism be damned, she loved him and wanted him, and when he looked at her like that, her reason held little sway.

But what came the last time she heeded her heart? 

She went beyond the wall for him, and lost a son. She put aside her quest for the throne for him, and lost half her men, and her oldest friend. She subjected herself to his countrymen’s hatred, and not just his family’s rejection, but his.

She let him affect her. Not only her feelings, but her decisions.

With loving Jon came boundless pleasure. He knew her body like no other. And he wanted to know her heart, as well as anyone could. But that was all reserved for times they were behind closed doors, in their afterglow. No matter how formidable they were together in battle or the bedroom, when the troubles of life beyond that pushed them, they would break. And she can’t break again. Not when she is so close. People are depending on her. The Realm is depending on her. And Jon ruling the North for her is the cornerstone of the world she intends to build.

_ “It’s not that simple,” she protested. _

_ “Do you love me?” _

_ “You know I do.”. _

_ “Then it is that simple.” _

But of course he would think so. He’s a simple man. Not stupid by any stretch, but uncomplicated. When he came of age at the Wall, his purpose was single minded, to protect the living from the dead. He never had to trouble himself with the prospect of an arranged marriage, or interfamilial politics, or, well,  _ the game,  _ like she had. She means to change the game; nay, to win it by upturning the board on which it is played, but she can’t do that if she can’t control it first.

A single tear trickles down her cheek, then another. It was the right decision. The pragmatic, unselfish decision. And it has borne fruit. By all accounts Jon was able to bring his people to heel quickly. Robbet Glover, the oathbreaker, the ringleader and rabble rouser, was executed, and when the other Lords realized that Jon was no longer in a mood to coddle them, they quickly fell in line. New lordships have been granted to those who’ve proved themselves useful and loyal, to replace the extinct houses: Mormont, Umber, Karstark, and some others she can’t trouble herself to remember. She trusts that Jon made the right decisions on that front. He knows his people. She does not, and never will. 

The abandoned castles have been repaired or rebuilt, and have served as shelters for the commoners displaced by the war in the North. So no matter Jon’s protestations about how he’s not suited for ruling, Dany knows it’s natural to him. Of course it is. It’s in his blood, though the Northmen will never know it. And her own happiness was a fair price for the peace and unity of her people, even if it means living the rest of her life without the man she loves, and raising their child alone.

She just has to make it through this week and avoid him as much as she possibly can. 

A soft knock at her chamber door shakes her from her weepy haze, and she wipes her tears with the back of her hand. She grants her handmaidens entry to prepare her bath. She misses when Missandei used to do this, but her Hand has far more important concerns these days, so she’s had to manage this task without her. Tomorrow the crown will be placed on her head, and she will take her seat on the throne of her ancestors, and perhaps it will all have been worth it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Jon _

He lies in bed that night wishing she was in it with him.This mattress is too soft, and the down tickles his nose and throat, and he wonders how difficult it would be to slip into her chamber, if she’s even abed herself. He’ll see her tomorrow when the crown is placed on her head. He’ll kneel, he’ll pledge his fealty and present his gift, and he’ll pray he doesn’t embarrass his family. He turns over and rearranges his pillow again, and he remembers putting himself at her mercy, not as he’d done the first day he’d met her - it was only his head on the line then - but as a man, wanting a woman. 

_ He was on his knees before her, clutching her hands, his eyes pleading with her. It was not something he’d planned. Oh, he’d imagined several times how he might go about this, but never thought it would actually come to pass. But there he was, asking her to be his until the end of their days. Love could be enough, could it not? It  _ should  _ be,and if she did not love him, he would love enough for them both. Of course he knew she did, but he asked her just to make sure. Indeed it was that simple. A Queen may do as she pleases. There’s nothing that says she must commit herself to a passionless political match. Why not marry for love? There are far worse reasons than that. _

_ “So we marry, then what,” she rebuked him. “We would never be together, because you cannot very well rule the North if you are with me in King’s Landing.” _

_ He rose abruptly, pulling her up with him. His hands framed her face, and his eyes were wide with urgency he’d not felt since he first came to Dragonstone. “Has it occurred to you that I don’t want to rule over anything? I tried it before, it didn’t work out. I wasn’t meant for this. I’ve had my fill of it. I just want you.” _

_ “And I want you, but we have more than ourselves to consider. We aren’t ordinary people, Jon. You know that. How many conversations have we had, about why I came to this land? What I mean to do, and why? The Iron Throne is not a distraction until I can find a proper husband. It is my destiny. It is my duty.” _

__

_ Duty, duty, duty, he was so very sick of duty being his master, dictating his every move, keeping him from that which he loved. “Fuck duty! Fuck the North, fuck Westeros! Leave them to rot. They don’t deserve you, and it will only destroy you. Kill your spirit. You don’t need a throne, Dany.” _

_ “I only need you, I suppose.” She lowered his hands and tried to move away from him, but he drew her closer. _

_ “I make you happy,” he whispered against her lips, and then he kissed her. _

_ She didn’t say anything, and he could feel her fading into him as she returned the kiss, but she caught herself before she tumbled off that cliff again, and pulled back, leaving him crestfallen. _

_ He wanted to shake her until she realized how unreasonable she was being. How complicated she was making an issue that needn’t be at all. _

_ “You think you’ll be happy sittin’ next to some prissy Dornishman, playin’ man and wife?” he snapped. You think a crown will make you happy?”  _

_ He cringed at the tone of his own voice. He was trying to convince her to marry him by….shouting at her? He expected her to respond in kind, but in her eyes there was no offense or anger. Only profound sadness _

_ “I know it will not. But this isn’t about my happiness, or yours. It’s bigger than that.” She closed the space between them again, grasping the collar of his tunic. Her throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and she looked like he wanted him to kiss her again, but he didn't.  _

_ “We deserve to be happy,” he exhorted. “After everything they took from us, we deserve it.” _

_ She just sighed and looked at him woefully. “It is not a choice we get to make, Jon, I don’t know what you are trying to prove. Fuck duty? That is not you. You are a man of principle. Of integrity and honor. That is what I love most in you. The rule of the North is your duty, as your father’s son.” _

_ She knew exactly what chords to play with him. She always did.  _

_ “Ned Stark was not my father,” he argued, though the words were bitter on his tongue. _

_ “He was, in every way that matters. And you represent his legacy more than his true born children ever could. Honor and decency mean something to you. Duty means something. This is the way of kings and queens. We belong to our people, not to ourselves.” _

_ He didn’t bother to point out that he wasn’t a king. He understood that in her eyes, he was. He took her hands in his, raising them to his lips to kiss her fingertips. Tears wet his eyes, and a sense of grim finality fell upon him. _

_ “You’re not gonna marry me, are ya?” he managed to say through the lump in his throat, and her own tears welled. He brushed them away with the tip of his thumb. “You’re going to build a world in which everyone is free, except you and me.” _

_ She nuzzled his cheek, snapping the last strings of his heart. “I cannot turn back now. No matter how much I love you, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise. It was foolish for us to believe we could have more than this. I shall never love another as I do you, Jon. And you have to go home. _

Home. She was his home. Perhaps she’d been testing him. He didn’t fight for her when she was at Winterfell. Quite the opposite, in fact. Yes, later he defied her and rode south to try to win her again, but when they were met with another test, he failed. He does not know if she would consider giving them another chance, but if she does, he cannot fail again.

_ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ _

_ Dany _

It is done. At midday, the High Septon places the crown upon her head and proclaims her Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. They decided to forego the other titles, as if her accomplishments across the sea were for naught. Then the frail old man’s voice rings clear in the throne room of the Red Keep as she takes her seat upon the thousand swords of Aegon’s fallen enemies, forged by the fire of Balerion the Dread.

“Long may she reign!”

“LONG MAY SHE REIGN!” The crowd cries in agreement, then applauds, though as she scans the throne room, she wonders how many truly mean it, or even care. She spots Tyrion in the gallery, his brother the Kingslayer at his side. Grey Worm is keeping a close eye on that for her. He isn’t Queensguard, but he is still her most trusted soldier, and now her Master of War. Her former Hand tries to seem impassive, but she recognizes his bitterness and regret.  _ Oh well,  _ she tells herself,  _ he should have been better at his job.  _ Still, she does mourn their friendship. Tyrion was nothing if not amusing. Every now and again, he was even clever. And she did care for him, truly. Still does. But none of that matters now. She acknowledges him with a slight nod, and he returns the gesture, then turns away.

She tries her best to keep her eyes from the front of the room, close to the foot of the dais, where House Stark stands. But she can’t, because Jon is there, filling the entire space with his presence, and her gaze is drawn to him, and in the moment she’s overcome by how much she misses having him close. He is infuriatingly handsome, maybe even more than when they parted, and, surprisingly, he does not seem completely out of place. It’s quite difficult to not picture him on the dais at her side, to have been the one to crown her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and her doing the same to him.  _ He belongs to the North,  _ she reminds herself.  _ His place is not here. _

The queue forms, and now time has come for each House to swear their fealty, and House Stark is first in line. He approaches her cautiously and kneels, presenting Longclaw, bowing his head, saying his words, pledging his love and loyalty, now and always, as the babe leaps in her womb at the sound of his voice.

_ Now and always _ . A promise oft made to her. And she knows, as he rises, and looks on her with those wistful brown eyes, that he means it. The child continues to stretch and squirm, landing a hard kick to her ribs, and she is thankful for her gown and cloak, for Jon does not seem to notice as she sits there in all her state, hands clasped tight in her lap. Her queenly visage slips when he presents his tribute; not something thoughtless like a horse or jewels or a musty old tome, but something so dear to her that if she hadn’t fallen in love with him months ago, she would have in that instant. She chokes back tears as she formally thanks House Stark for their pledge, and promises her protection in perpetuity. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She still can’t quite believe it, and she fingers the circlet again, just to reassure herself that it actually happened. She must have done so a thousand times this day. It is real, and it’s over, and she has no more wars to fight. But her victory feels hollow as she observes her honored guests, drinking and dancing, sneaking into dark corners to get up to illicit deeds, the ladies laughing together, the men prancing about like peacocks.

The Queen’s Ballroom is beautifully appointed. All traces of the taint of Lannister and Baratheon have been scrubbed away. Much of the dragon iconography had been removed or destroyed by the Usurper, as a final act of spite against her brother. It gives her some satisfaction to know that, no matter what Robert ground to dust, or burned, or tore down, or hid away, it didn’t make Lyanna Stark love him, or be his in any way, and his life may as well have been forfeit, for he found no joy in the remainder of his days. She wonders if she’s cursed to the same fate. Quentyn is gone; she did not love him, but could have been content. And Jon…..

She finds him easily in the crowd, standing beside a column, chatting with Ser Davos, so comely, so regal, and she cannot look away. He’s not wearing his cloak. His hair has been trimmed, his curls hanging loose, his beard groomed and clipped close. He wears a doublet of red and black brocade, a sight she never thought she’d see, and he’s the picture of Targaryen royalty, raven hair and brown eyes aside. He was born for this, though it was kept from him. The King in the North. The King of the Seven Kingdoms. Her King, her love.

She curses their plight, that the North still needs to be managed and she can’t trust just anyone with the responsibility. Maybe she should have granted Sansa’s request all those months ago and let the Northerners go about their business, fend for themselves, and be her problem no longer. Why should she care for the fates of those ungrateful rubes, after all?

_ Because you can’t leave thousands of children to starve and suffer and die for the pride and stupidity of their fathers,  _ she reminds herself.  _ They need him. No one else is fit for it.  _

She’s been staring for too long, but before she can look away, their eyes lock, and he gives a crooked smile that makes her blush, but she returns the gesture, and her eyes bid him to approach, while her mind screams at her,  _ What are you doing? _

What is she doing indeed? She hitches up the hem of her skirt, and makes her way to the gallery that overlooks the ballroom, the Lord Commander of her Queensguard following at a respectable distance. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the south end of the hall, she can see the cloudless nighttime sky, full of millions of stars that glimmer like jewels, the moon full and bright, its beams dancing across the gentle waves of the Blackwater Bay.

_ Moon is goddess, Khaleesi, me nem nesa. _

On a night like this, she might believe it.

Then she feels him before she sees him, and she tries not to smile. Her heartbeat quickens, and she holds a breath.

“Your Grace.” His alluring Northern burr is a sweet song in her ears.

“Prince Jon,” she replies coolly, not looking at him, for if she does, she might fling herself into his arms. Out of the corner of her eye she sees her guard observing them with disapproval, his gauntleted hand brushing the pommel of his sword, his posture taut and ready to strike if necessary. It’s silly. All her guests are unarmed, and if Jon meant to lay hands on her, it would be for her pleasure, not harm.

She feels Jon draw closer, and the phantom of his touch against her skin. His scent is the same as always, but cleaner, more intoxicating. She heard that he’d made use of the bath house. She’s sorry she could not join him. That was an activity they quite enjoyed during their time at Harrenhal, where the tubs were the size of small ponds, though the water wasn’t hot enough for her liking. She remembers well how enticing he looked, naked and wet and slippery with soaps and oils, his curls unsprung and falling past his powerful shoulders. She shakes her head to dislodge the thought. Now is not the time to make a mess of her smallclothes. She squeezes her thighs tight to relieve the nagging ache. 

He clears his throat, snapping her back to the present. “I wondered if you would grant me the honor of a dance.”

Finally she turns to him, and up close he’s even more beautiful. He seems refreshed, like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. She knows that look. It’s how he’d look after a night of making love, not a care in the world besides her pleasure. For a moment she wonders if he has found a bedmate, or several, after all; if he’s finally put away his love for her. But when he extends his hand and looks at her with those same soft and sheepish eyes, she knows she still has his heart.

Her brows arch playfully.“You dance now?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all, but I will make an exception for you.” He dares to inch closer as his eyes shift over her shoulder to the lurking guard, sizing him up. The man is at least a head taller than he, and armed and armored to boot, and surely he can’t be thinking of getting into a row. He will always fight for her, no matter the odds, and one more piece of her wall crumbles. She needs to find her bearings, quickly.

“That won’t be necessary. I do not intend to dance tonight. It wouldn’t be proper so soon after my….loss.” She cringes as she mentions it, because it’s a touchy subject all around. Not only did she reject Jon’s proposal back at Rosby, she chose another man. A dead man now, but it’s not a fact easily forgotten, and his expression betrays his wounded pride.

“I..I was sorry to hear about that, he murmurs.

“Were you?”

“I didn’t wish him dead, Dany.”

“Of course not. But out of respect to his memory, I should refrain from displays of merrymaking with other men.” It’s half-true, anyway. And she sees that it’s shaken Jon, who looks far less cocksure than he did a few minutes ago. 

A long silence passes, and she’s ready to excuse herself when he moves even closer to her, enough that she can see the quiver of his lips.

“A walk then?” he suggests, offering his arm to her.

She thinks her mind diseased, for the impulse to have him all to herself evaporates her better judgement. What if these few days are all that remain for them, for all the days to come? Gods be damned, she  _ wants  _ this. It’s too delicious, too dangerous, too  _ right.  _ She might blame the wine, if she’d had any, but she reasons that it’s just a walk. A walk with her nephew. Whom she used to fuck, quite well, until circumstances and troublesome people came between them. Whom she loves and cherishes above all. Whom she’s missed so desperately, more than she could admit even to herself, until now. Who fathered the child inside her. It’s fine, though. It’s not like she’s going to fuck him again, and it’s not like he would expect it. That wouldn’t be practical or wise. It’s just a short stroll outside, and polite conversation, or perhaps not even that, as Jon is hardly a loquacious man. Just an innocent moment, nothing more. And then it will be over, for good.

She adjusts her cloak, satisfied enough that it conceals her condition, which is complicated by the fact that she waddles more than walks these days. Boldly, she links her arm with his. Her guard approaches, looking suspicious, but she waves him away. 

“It’s alright, Ser Gerold,” she says lightly. She’s safe. With Jon, she’s safe.

“Who’s he?” Jon mutters.

“Ser Gerold Dayne. Nephew of the Sword of The Morning. Lord Commander of my Queensguard. He isn’t the most pleasant fellow, but he has the pedigree.” She guides him across the balcony to the archway on the opposite side, which opens to a terrace.

They step onto the terrace, then navigate the stone stairway that leads down to her favorite spot she’s discovered so far; a small rooftop garden she calls the Night Garden, because all the flowers bloom at night, she explains to him. He observes that they’re fortunate the moon is full tonight. They take a turn around the manicured lawn, and she describes each type of flower to him, and, to his credit, he tries to appear interested. It reminds her of their first day at Winterfell, when he showed her the glass garden, and the winter roses that grew there. He’d cut one from its bush and offered it to her, like a knight to his lady love, and she’d found it so ridiculous but maddeningly sweet that she’d thrown her arms around him and kissed him hard, and he was ready to sweep a row of pots from the workbench and have his way with her, before they remembered that they were supposed to behave with some discretion. But he’d more than made up for it later that night when he sneaked into her room, like they were children.

There are winter roses in this garden too, though they don’t flourish this far South. The wolf flower bush, called so because it blooms only on the full moon, reveals its deep purple blossom. She doesn’t know if the Usurper or her brother had it planted as a tribute Maid of Winterfell, or if it was just a bush some previous Queen or princess chose because she thought it was pretty. But she suspects it is more than that. She wonders what Lyanna Stark was like. Her sister by law, mother to the man she loves, grandmother to the child in her womb. How fierce and lovely and remarkable she must have been to catch Rhaegar's eye. A war was fought over her love. And nobody won, in the end.

Daenerys continues the tour, and when they reach a cluster of palm trees, she stops mid sentence, caught off guard by the way he’s staring at her, so intensely, as though he’s going to kiss her. But he does not. Instead, he gestures to the circlet on her head. 

“You wear it well. Not as fancy as I’d have thought.”

“There is no need to be ostentatious,” she shrugs, and she’s happy to explain it, because Sansa had grumbled that it was too basic, and she was not terribly interested in how much thought her Queen put into the design, and the symbolism of each element. “I wanted something simple, yet meaningful. A circlet, like Aegon I’s. The silver represents the blood of Old Valyria. The adornments are obsidian, for Dragonstone, and rubies, the jewel of House Targaryen. The runes are ancient Valyrian, and I’m told they stand for strength, justice, and goodness.”

“Strength first, hmm?” he comments pointedly.

“And what is wrong with that? Without strength, the other ideals are unattainable.”

“I suppose,” he shrugs, and it’s clear he wishes to drop the subject. His brows furrow as he searches for something to keep up the conversation. “It’s nice. And you look lovely.”

“And you finally learned that there are colors in the world besides black or brown,” she jibes.

“Ah this?” He tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves. “The tailor thought it appropriate for the occasion.”

Indeed it is. He’s relatively stripped down, no armor, no cloak, not a trace of leather in sight besides his belt, and his hands are bare. She loves his hands; how they have the power to kill or protect or pleasure, how he used to rest them on her hips, or cradle the small of her back when they walked side by side, or cup her face when he kissed her, or fondle her tits. They’re rough hewn, and never exactly clean (except for now, she notices) and have experienced more than his years should have allowed.

_ Gather your wits, Daenerys,  _ she chastens herself. 

“Red suits you.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“I like it,” she admits. “It is quite a different aesthetic. So regal and refined.”

“Rather like your Dornishman?” He leans toward her, and she shifts uncomfortably as she scowls at him. To his credit, he’s immediately aware of his lack of sensitivity. “Forgive me. I should not have said that. And I really am sorry for your loss, you know.”

At least he’s trying to seem sincere, but his jealousy excites her a bit, and she’s guilted by that. Accepting Quentyn was not about teaching Jon a lesson, after all. It was practicality, nothing more. 

“It’s no bother,” she sighs. “Quentyn was an arrogant sort. I warned him many times not to approach them alone, but one night he was quite drunk, and apparently he….well….”

“It was Rhaegal, wasn’t it?” 

By this light she can’t tell if it’s satisfaction or contrition in Jon’s eyes. Suddenly she feels a bit dizzy, and she is not sure if it is her empty stomach, or the heat of the evening, or the turn of this conversation and his presence. She breathes deeply to settle herself, and reaches for the tree to steady her legs.

“I was not there,” she explains.

“But you know.”

This is not the discussion she wishes to have, but she understands that there are hundreds of stories swirling around the Realm, and, like any smart ruler, she makes it a point to know of the gossip surrounding her.

“I suspect,” she sighs. “But I cannot fault him, nor can I punish a dragon for being a dragon. It does not take a maester’s intellect to understand that a dragon is not a house cat. Quentyn, or anyone, should know better. A dragon does as he likes, and will not be tamed.”

“Not unlike his mother,” Jon quips. He leans against the tree and absently picks at a loose piece of bark. “I did hope to see Rhaegal though. I miss him. Are you keeping them at Dragonstone?”

“I can’t  _ keep _ them anywhere,” she chafes, as a flash of heat washes over her. “They range where they wish. But do not fear, the North will be safe. They have no more fondness for it than I do.”

She can feel beads of sweat collecting on her brow, and her head is pounding and spinning, blurring her vision. She needs to get away, perhaps to her chamber so she can lay down with a cold cloth over her eyes. All the excitement of the day has finally defeated her fragile constitution. She feels ill, but she’s not about to tell him that. But before she can take another step, he reaches for her hand and pulls her to him.

“I miss you.” 

She can’t breathe. She’s suffocating.

“Don’t, Jon….” she pants.

And then everything goes dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She comes to, blinking rapidly, and the face of a very concerned Jon Stark comes into focus, only inches above hers. He’s cradling her head in his hands. Her immediate thought is of the baby, and she wills her arms to move. Her hand goes to her belly, but she quickly remembers herself, and plays it off, swiping it over her clammy forehead. He insists on calling for the Grandmaester, but she refuses. She manages to sit up, blood rushing to her head, and he helps her to her feet as she brushes the dust from her gown. She discreetly pulls the side of her cloak over her belly and hopes that when she fell, she did not reveal her delicate state. If he noticed, he doesn’t show it. 

“Are you alright?” is all he says, and she nods. 

She looks up to see Ser Gerold menacingly descending the stairs, ready to come to blows with Jon, but she assures her Lord Commander that all is well, and she is just overheated. Ser Gerold reaches her and loops his arm through hers to escort her back inside, ensuring that she can navigate the steps safely as Jon follows behind.

Then she reaches the balcony, and her womb clenches, hard.

She’s felt this before, with Rhaego.

_ No, no no no no….. _

She squeezes her legs together and tries to let it pass without signaling any distress, but the tightness doubles her over, and she grips Ser Gerold’s hand.

“Your Grace?” her guard queries, surprisingly tender.

“Take me to my quarters and fetch Lady Missandei,” she orders through her teeth as everything around her seems to fade from her awareness, and fear grips her heart.

She hears Jon ask what is wrong, but before she can dismiss him, her belly contracts again, even harder, and tears come unbidden.

_ Not again. Not again. Too soon. Not again. _

She looks to Ser Gerold, eyes desperate. “The baby….” she gasps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Jon  _

They won’t let him see her. He honestly wouldn’t know what to say if they did. 

A babe. She’s with child.

He wonders if Sansa knows -  _ of course  _ she does, how could she not - but why would she keep this from him? Only two reasons come to mind; she sees some advantage for herself, or Daenerys swore her to secrecy. 

So many lies even now.

No one will tell him anything. But he knows it’s his seed that quickened inside her. She hid it well, he has to hand it to her. He barely took his eyes off her during the ceremony or the ball, and studied her quite intently in the little garden, and he still hadn’t realized. Only when she uttered those fearful words to her guard did he see it, and then he felt like an absolute git for being so oblivious before, and started piecing together all the differences he’d observed. Her tits were noticeably fuller, for one thing, and he’d been preoccupied with that. And her gown was obviously designed to accentuate that, and draw the focus away from her middle. But he recalls the other subtle changes as well. Plumper cheeks (perhaps she was eating better in the capital?), and an awkward gait (uncomfortable new shoes, possibly?) But when she doubled over with pain, his eyes fell to the round belly that she’d managed to conceal behind her cloak and gown, and he may well have fainted, were she not already in distress.

Jon is not an intellectual man, but he has been near an expectant woman or two in his life, and he can count. Despite what she’d probably prefer everyone to believe, this babe was not sired by her intended. He’s been over it in his head a hundred times at least, has considered every possibility, but there is no way around it. It’s been eight moons or so since they set sail from Dragonstone. Eight moons since they started fucking, without a care for any consequences. 

_ A fortnight on the ship….another fortnight on the road….that’s one month….. _

_ A month at Winterfell before the battle, though he’d learned the truth from Sam and Bran less than a sennight after their arrival, and pulled away from her….. _

_ Another fortnight of estrangement after the victory, and then she left….. _

_ ….She’d gone to Dorne…..but by the time she got there it must have been three moons since their first night together….. _

_ At Harrenhal, her body was different….her breasts were tender to his touch, heavier in his hands, she tasted sweeter when he kissed her sex, there just the hint of a tummy, but she was always voluptuous despite her small stature….it was nothing….. _

_ …..Or was it? He was too busy enjoying it to think it strange at the time. _

_ Even if she fucked the Dornishman when she went to meet him, that was five moons ago at most. _

_ Would she appear so great with child at five moons? _

Hardly a lesson he’d have learned at Maester Luwin’s feet.

He actually wishes Sam was here. Sam would know for sure. Come to think of it, Sam’s child will probably be coming soon. Things between them had been tense since before the battle, but he’d been happy for his old friend, even though he knows their friendship will never be the same, because if he has to choose between Daenerys and Samwell Tarly, there is no competition. Still, he’d know just what to say to ease his mind. He’s probably read about it in a book after all.

But by himself, Jon is fraught. He never thought he’d father a child, much less an heir to a kingdom. He fantasized about it while they were together, even though she was so sure she was barren, but now it’s real, and they could both be in danger, and there’s nothing he can do but brood.

What was her plan? Was she just hoping he’d never find out? Or, if he did, that he wouldn’t mind his son or daughter being raised by another man? That he would be perfectly accepting of his own issue growing up a thousand leagues from him, never knowing him, never a part of his life? And if that was the case, did she ever really love him, because how could she behave so cruelly and callously to someone she loves? Did she not understand what Ned Stark’s lies had done to him? Knowing that the man he admired above all others had deceived him so egregiously inflicted damage from which he has not entirely recovered. And she was willing to subject their child to the same? Not that she ever really tried to see his side of things. Her only concern when he confessed to her was what the truth meant for her position, her claim, and that hurt him almost as much as the truth had done.

He can’t stand being confined in this room any longer, but he’s afraid to leave, in case she sends for him. Eventually, he reasons that there are eyes all over the keep, and if she wants to find him, it shouldn’t be difficult. Besides, he needs to know. He hates to do it this way, as he’d rather hear it from her, but she may refuse to see him again, and if so, what power does he have to make it otherwise? So he seeks out his family.

Bran’s quarters are on the opposite side of the corridor, and he’s relieved to find Arya there with him. When Jon enters the room, Arya whips her head around, and he can tell by her face that they’ve been talking about him.

“Don’t mind me,” he says crossly as he saunters over to the table and pulls up a chair. Bran just stares blankly, as Bran always does, but at least Arya looks sympathetic. And it makes him irrationally angry, again, because it all traces back to what prompted Daenerys to leave Winterfell in the first place, and what sent him back there when he should have been at her side. He plunks down in the chair and levels his gaze at his brother, and when he does, he can see the boy he used to know. The boy who had no secrets with him, who revered him, who kept at his heels day and night. That boy would want his brother to know the truth. But just as quickly, he’s gone, and the raven’s dispassionate eyes meet his now.

“Bran,” Jon implores, “tell me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Dany _

It’s raining hard. But it suits her mood. And it is a fortunate thing, for the sudden deluge has postponed the tourney by at least a day. By the morn, she should be back on her feet and ready to attend, even if it is a frivolity she’d rather ignore.

Against her nature, she’s staying put in her bed, staring up at the crimson canopy. The curtains are drawn, drapes of heavy red velvet, holding the paltry light at bay, making it a bit easier for her to try to rest. If only her mind would quiet for a bit.

The babe is perfectly safe, stretching and rolling inside her at this moment. Sometimes she enjoys just watching her belly, and seeing the way it contorts and ripples with the child’s movements. Her navel has turned outward like a little button. Some pink marks have formed and grown longer on her sides. She doesn’t mind. Those are her battle scars, evidence of her distinct feminine power, the nourishment and protection of a new life she created with the man she loves. 

She winces at a jab to her bladder, and grumbles that she’s going to have to negotiate her way off the sunken feather mattress,  _ again,  _ to use the privy,  _ again, _ because the chamber pot has become too cumbersome. Luckily, her handmaiden happens into the room and helps her along, then fluffs her pillows and assists her to settle back into bed when she’s finished. She’s offered breakfast, but declines. She isn’t hungry. She’s just going to do as the midwife advised, and get some rest. What happened last night was not her labor, and is apparently something quite common at this stage. She hopes it won’t be a regular occurrence, so that when the time does come, she’ll know for sure. She chides herself for losing her wits when it happened, and blurting things out in front of Jon, and the look on his face when she locked eyes with him, horrified, is one that will never leave her.

Of course he demanded to see her, after he’d gone to fetch Missandei at Ser Gerold’s direction, but her brilliant Hand intervened. She’s not sure exactly what he knows now. He may not realize the babe is his, which means he could believe it to be anyone’s - Quentyn’s, in particular - and she doesn’t know what is worse. Though it gutted her, she certainly had intended to pass the child off as the Prince’s. She could finagle the timeline to convince people that they were wed before the child was conceived, and the planned ceremony would have been a formality for the sake of the public. Quentyn had been perfectly willing, though. He didn’t mind at all, raising another man’s child, if it put him closer to the throne, and secured Dorne’s position. And the Dornish are quite open minded when it comes to sex and fidelity and bastardy, and all of that. In his words, we love who we love, and there is no choice in it, and why should we be forced to behave otherwise? He knew she didn’t love him, but she enjoyed him enough, and if she had a dozen lovers on the side, who was he to argue, as though he’d be lonely and celibate? It’s the way most royal marriages work, after all. She’s not sure Jon would be so accepting in that respect. Despite bedding her outside the bond of marriage, not to mention all the ways they’d fucked, he is quite a traditional man. And if he believes this child is his, it’s exactly as she told Sansa; he’ll never go back to the North. Not without the child, at least; maybe not even without her. And she’s sworn never to return to the North in her life.

  
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By and by, Missandei enters the bedchamber with Sansa in tow. Her Hand promised her last night that her advisors would see to any pressing issues to arise so she could rest, but there is a decree of legitimacy for some bastard of House Mallister that she simply must address  _ right now. _ She gives the document a glance and signs it with a wry smile on her lips, as she knows this was only an excuse for the two of them to check on her. Surprisingly, Sansa actually seems concerned. Of course, in her mind, the child her Queen carries is a Stark, and a possible heir to Winterfell _. _

_ And one she no doubt hopes to influence,  _ Dany muses.

When the menial tasks are seen to, the women linger, and she wants to shoo them away and be alone, but there is something she must know first.

“Have you seen him?” she asks Sansa, pointedly, and her heart races as she awaits the news.

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

“And, he’s furious. And hurt.”

“And what did you tell him?” Dany presses, impatiently, As if Sansa didn’t understand exactly what she’d meant.

Sansa sighs and takes a seat by the bed. “Nothing. It’s not for me to tell. With all due respect, I am not the intermediary between you and my brother. You insisted on keeping this a secret, and the secret is out. The truth always comes to light.” Then, surprisingly, Sansa squeezes her hand, and her sharp features soften. “He loves you. He may be angry, but he does.”

Daenerys throws her head back against the pillows and groans. “How could he, after this?”

“Because that’s who Jon is, Your Grace.” Sansa reassures her.

She knows this. She knows Jon loves her. And the more she thinks about it, the more she simply cannot escape that they are meant to be together. It’s destiny. It has been, since they were born. They were practically separated at birth, hidden on opposite sides of the world, and they found each other anyway. Not just that, but they fell in love. And they defied the odds, faced death itself and lived to tell the tale, and created life anew. She doesn’t believe in any gods, but with a story like theirs, it’s difficult not to think that some higher power has a hand in all this. She sits up in the bed again and smooths her hair, squares her shoulders, and takes a deep breath.

“Bring him to me then.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Sansa nods, then she rises and heads out of the chamber. 

Missandei grabs the hairbrush from the vanity, and some pins and ties, and, like old times, gets to work on the Queen’s hair, fashioning it in two simple braids that join at the nape of her neck, allowing the rest of her locks to cascade in loose waves down her back. She finds small comfort in the gesture. Missandei is so much more than a common handmaiden, but their most candid and intimate conversations have come in moments just like this. In a way, it’s almost like….having a mother.. She puts her hand on her belly and imagines herself with a daughter, brushing her hair and helping her dress and listening to her troubles, offering advice or comfort. A mother can be a friend too, can she not? She likes to think that her own mother would have been her dearest friend, her closest confidant, had the gods not denied her. It occurs to her that the family she has is the family she’s made, not her blood, until Jon came along, but those she’s met along the way, Missandei most of all. Soon enough, that family will grow by one more.

After her hair is finished, Missandei presents her with a dressing gown; a blue frock as dark and iridescent as midnight sky on a starry night, and helps her to don it, being careful as she ties it around the waist.

“What will you tell him, Your Grace?” Missandei asks gently as she tightens the last tie.

A frown pulls at Daenerys’ lips. “The truth.” 

A knowing smile ghosts Missandei’s lips. It’s quite possible that her dear friend actually hopes that she and Jon might reach some understanding. As fiercely protective as Missandei is, as many nights she listened with such concern and empathy while Dany poured out her heart over Jon, she knows what everyone else knows, and what Dany herself has been so reticent to admit. That, Jon Snow, or Jon Stark, or Aegon Targaryen, she loves him in whatever way he comes. And she is beyond tired of allowing stubborn, prideful, ignorant Northerners, and her own fears to come between them.

“Missandei,” she says carefully, “what….what do you think of Lady Stark?”

Missandei’s bushy eyebrows knit together, and she considers her words diligently as always. “She’s...very clever. She has a knack for organization and logistics. She has a good mind for politics.”

“Do you think she can be trusted, though?”

“No less than any other Lord or Lady in this land,” the Hand of the Queen answers. “She’s ambitious and cunning, but she’s come to respect you, I think.”

“It could be a ruse.”

“It could be. But why does it matter?” Missandei wonders, as she arranges a knitted throw over Dany’s legs and places an extra pillow behind her back.

Daenerys decides not to entertain the thought any longer. Not until she’s spoken to Jon. Not until she knows where they stand.

“No reason,” she says with a sigh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_ Jon _

He was annoyed when he opened his chamber door to find Sansa on the other side, still bitter at her for what he considers a betrayal. He was angry at all of them, honestly. He tried to petition Bran for information, but his brother evaded too. It wasn’t his place, nor Sansa’s place; at least that’s the excuse they both gave. He wonders if it’s anyone’s place in this world to tell the truth anymore.

But as put out as he is by his siblings, most of his ire is reserved for Daenerys. Of course he still loves her, he always shall, but this breach of trust is not something he’s sure he can forgive. He does consider that this is how she must have felt when they were at Winterfell, isolated, lost,confused; not because he hadn’t been honest, but because he  _ had.  _ But he would not deign to keep a secret like that from her. It would have been a most egregious dishonor, and honor still means something to him, even if he’s the last person in the world who can say that.

Apparently, that’s where the two of them diverge, because she obviously has no problem hiding serious things from him, and it’s caused him to rethink everything he thought he knew about her, and them. But she does want to see him according to his sister, and it isn’t a request.

He follows Sansa and two Queensguard in their crisp white cloaks through the maze of stairs and passageways that lead from the Maidenvault to Maegor’s Holdfast, and they stop at the ornate door of the royal chamber, where two Dothraki are stationed outside, clad in their typical worn leathers. He can’t imagine trying to present a Dothraki bloodrider with the white cloak and silver armor, or a longsword. But he’s a bit relieved by their presence. She has Queensguard, probably to uphold tradition, but the ones she truly trusts to shield her back are the ones who’ve fought with her the longest. 

They look him up and down with the same sternness as always. If he’s not mistaken, these are the two who manhandled him when he first came to Harrenhal, but he can’t be certain. Sansa gives a courteous smile to the two, though her eyes are ice, and informs them that the  _ khaleesi  _ had summoned the  _ ver mahrazh _ (that means wolf man, Dany told him once), and he has arrived. The white cloaks and the Dothraki regard each other warily; obviously their camaraderie has not had time to develop just yet, but no one draws a weapon, and the Dothraki open the chamber door and follow Jon, Sansa, and the two Queensguard inside. 

Jon’s eyes lock with hers immediately, and his heart leaps to his throat, as it did the first time he saw her. In a way it’s like he’s greeting that stranger again, and it makes him sad.

“Your Grace, the Prince of Winterfell,” Sansa announces with cool formality.

The Queen is lounging on a plush green sleeping couch, adorned with several embroidered cushions. An open book rests in her lap, a crystal flagon of cool water and a plate of biscuits and fruit on the table beside her, untouched. Perhaps she had it sent up from the kitchens for him. He doesn’t understand how she stands on her own legs, as little as she eats, probably less now that her belly is full of his child. In this light, with the way she’s positioned, he sees it even more clearly, and his gut instinct is to reach for her, but now is not the time. He needs answers first.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Daenerys says. “You may leave us. All of you.”

The Dothraki and the white cloaks all glower at him as they exit the room, though he knows at least the Dothraki are well aware that he would never harm her. They just like to measure cocks as oft as they can.

He steps closer to the couch, his hands clasped behind his back. He knows he must look quite judgmental, but he doesn’t care just now.

“Are you alright?” he asks, once they are alone. She nods, but turns her eyes away. “What happened?”

“Nothing. It’s common. It just gave me a fright because of what happened….before.” She closes her book and places it on the table. She still won’t look at him, but he realizes that she’s trying to stop herself from crying. 

“You mean your son?”

“He came too early,” she explains in a small voice. Her eyes have a faraway look that breaks his heart a little. Of all the conversations they ever had, the matter of her stillborn son was one subject they did not broach. He only knew she’d been with child once before, and the boy did not live. “I never even saw him. Never held him. Never….” 

She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her gown, and his indignation slips. Cautiously, he takes a seat on the couch, and she shifts her legs to make room for him, and finally meets his eyes. It strikes him how young she looks right now. He’s older than her by several months as he understands things, but her bearing is usually well beyond her years, and many a time it’s made him feel green by comparison. But at present, all he can see is the frightened girl she must have been when she wandered the Free Cities with her brother, always running, always hiding, never safe.

“No more secrets Daenerys,” he says, his voice near a whisper. “No more lies. I need to hear it from you. Is the child mine?”

She looks at him for a long time, a myriad of emotions reflecting in her misty eyes.

“Ours.”

His breath hitches. Intellectually, he knew already, but to hear her say it brings the reality to bear, and he feels so many things at once. Joy. Trepidation. Anger. Pride. Love, still. He must decide quickly which one of those will guide him. There are a hundred questions but he settles on the simplest first. 

“How long have you known?”

“I started to suspect after you left Rosby, but it was confirmed after King’s Landing fell. I thought of sending for you. I wanted to, I just…..didn’t know what to do. It may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t always know what to do.” She pauses to take a sip of water, then as an afterthought offers the plate of biscuits to him, but he declines. This isn’t a conversation that’s had over tea and cakes. “I had to consider the peace and stability of the Realm,” she continues, “the North included. I couldn’t only think of myself, or us.”

He turns that over in his mind for a moment. It’s the same argument she made when she refused his proposal, and those injuries have not healed. It could be a genuine concern, but could just as easily be an excuse.“So you got engaged to another man, and you were gonna raise my child as his.”

“That was the plan, yes.” She lowers her eyes and he can’t decide if she’s remorseful or not.

“And what?” he retorts sharply, “you just hoped I’d never find out? Or that I wouldn’t give a shit if I did?”

“I don’t know!” She looks up at him, her cheeks wet with tears, which she wipes away. “I’m sorry, Jon. I became something I swore never to be again. I was afraid, and I’m still afraid. Hate me if you want, it’s no less than I deserve, but you know that I didn’t keep this from you because I wanted to hurt you. I just….thought it would make things easier.” 

He knows she’s loath to let him see her like this, and he hates that he’s brought it on. And he understands that, whether she’d told him of her condition as soon as she knew, or at any time before now, their conversation would be much the same, the circular argument about the good of the Realm versus their personal desires, and it would likely be no less painful.

“Dany, nothing in our lives has been easy. Nothing about our alliance, or our love, will ever be easy. You knew that from the start. And you just gave up on us.”

_ “I  _ gave up?” she snarls. “What about you? The second we rode through the gates of Winterfell, you abandoned me. It was never about your truth. You left me to deal with your caprice alone, wondering what in the seven hells I’d done, or what someone whispered in your ear to turn you away.”

This isn’t about a baby anymore. And Jon realizes there can be no future for them without resolving the past. When he came to Harrenhal, he was not in the mood for talking. Their bodies had done that for them, and he made the mistake of believing that fucking could solve everything.

He shifts his weight to face her more directly. Then he tells her the things he’d avoided telling himself. How the truth affected him. How it changed him because he allowed it to. How it pained him that she was only concerned about the throne. She wasn’t, she explains. Her reaction was not ideal, and she knew it then, but she was in a state of shock herself, and there was never time to talk about anything, and she believed in the moment that it was a fabrication his friends and family devised to come between them and undermine her position, because they’d rather hate her than understand her. Everything at Winterfell was so wrong. It’s a chapter of their story he wishes he could erase. And in the end, they both admit their mistakes. No one was blameless. No one ever is, except this child now.

“So what now?” he asks, brushing tears from his cheeks. One hand is on her knee, and she places her much smaller hand on top of his. Her tender touch still does so many things to him. Gods, he loves her.

“You are still the Warden of the North, Jon,” she answers tearily.

“I don’t have to be.” He clasps both his hands around hers and tugs her a bit closer to himself. “I dealt with Glover and his lot. And the rest of my bannermen are here, in the capital, and they all knelt before you and swore the same oath of fealty as I did.”

She rolls her eyes. “And you believe they truly meant it.”

“It’s not for me to judge what’s in a man’s heart. But I know they understand the consequences of breaking that oath. The North is as stable and secure as it’s ever gonna be.” He raises one hand to cup her face, and she presses against his palm as her eyes flutter closed. “Dany, you can’t expect me to go back there. To spend my days sittin’ at the high table, lordin’ over everyone, when my child and the woman I love are a thousand miles away from me, knowin’ I can’t be part of their lives, can’t be there when they need me, or protect them. I’m not askin’ you to marry me, just….let me stay.”

“You...you love me still?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful, but guarded.

“Dany, loving you is like breathing to me. I couldn’t stop, even if I wanted.”

Then his heart stops when she threads her fingers through his hair and draws him in for a chaste kiss, not lustful or demanding, but restorative. He returns it, pulling her closer, wrapping his arms around her, burying his hands in her silver tresses that always smell of lavender. She pulls back after a moment, her forehead resting against his.

“Why aren’t you asking me?” she whispers.

“What?”

  
“Why aren’t you asking?”

He moves his head away to her look in her eyes. “You said no.”

She slides her fingers out of his hair to capture hands. She sweetly kisses his knuckles, and it sends lightning through his veins. “Maybe I wouldn’t, if you asked me again.”

He’s not about to make this easy for her. Even though a great divide between them has been bridged for now, they have many complicated issues to solve. And after all she’s put him through these last few months, he won’t mind making her squirm for a while longer, but even as he sits there, a goofy grin on his face, as happy as he’s been in a very long time, he knows he won’t last long, because this is the life he wants, and he wants it to begin as soon as it can.

“Then maybe I will, someday,” he teases.

And he kisses her once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took some liberties with the hidden nooks and crannies of the Red Keep. I also made up some flowers. I know nothing about the botany of Westeros other than the winter roses and those flowers Daario gave Dany. I also assume that Jon has never seen lobster.


End file.
